


mon pinson

by Aurora0331



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, SMUT!, Sandor in a uniform, WW2 AU, What am I doing, come get y'all juice, mentions of past abuse & trauma, slowish burn, some descriptions of era-typical violence, what more do you want
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 24,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21718018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurora0331/pseuds/Aurora0331
Summary: During the Allied invasion of France after D-Day, the aristocratic Stark family play host to four American officers - among them, the irritable Colonel Clegane.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 207
Kudos: 401





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't speak French and while I try to do my research I never claimed to be a history buff so please call me out on any glaring errors! Having said that, this is just a bit of fun and I hope you enjoy xxx

Sansa stood beside her mother, her younger siblings lined up neatly to her left like so many little ducklings on the Seine. The rumble of a motor car pulling up outside the house swelled to a roar before dying out abruptly with a cough. There were voices in the street – loud, American voices – and the sounds of boots and luggage hitting the cobblestones. Catelyn stiffened imperceptibly, and Sansa reached out to touch her sleeve in a fortifying gesture. Both women were remembering the fearsome bombings of what the Allied forces were calling “D-Day”, and the smouldering ruins of their beautiful cathedral. It was difficult not to feel just a little bitter.

The front door swung open then, admitting first Sansa’s father, resplendent in hisgénérauxdress, and then three, no, _four_ American officers, each more fearsome and battle worn than the last. There was a slight man with a grim face who appeared to be missing an eye, and a grizzled older gentleman who walked with a limp. Behind him came a stocky redhead who, while sporting no apparent physical injuries, had a look of madness about him. And bringing up the rear came a giant of a man, so tall that the crown of his head almost brushed the lintel. As he stepped into the light flooding through the tall bay windows, Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. He terrified her, and it wasn’t because of his sheer size or the twisted mass of scarring across the left side of his face – no, Sansa had seen far worse during the bombings and the Nazi occupation. It was his eyes that made her blood freeze in her veins; they were the colour of flint and cold as ice, and when they swept across the room and caught her staring at him they flashed brighter than a flare in a cloudless sky. Sansa looked away, but the damage was done; her cheeks burned, and she barely heard her sister Arya when she leaned in to whisper, ‘that’s The Hound!’

‘What?’ Sansa hissed back distractedly, watching from the corner of her eye as Catelyn stepped forward primly to greet the men.

‘ _The Hound_ ,’ Arya rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘He’s a legend. He took Cherbourg with only-‘

‘ _Quiet!_ ’ Sansa shushed her, pressing cool fingers to her cheeks in a desperate attempt to bring the colour down before an introduction that was surely mere seconds away. Her gaze strayed again to the man Arya had called The Hound, but this time she could not bring herself to look beyond the polished toes of his boots. She felt stupid to be so frightened; it was not long ago, after all, that Nazi soldiers had patrolled the laneway outside her very home, dragging children from their beds and shooting men in the street like dogs. This American officer, for all his hard looks, could not be any worse. And yet…

‘And these are my children,’ Eddard Stark’s voice interrupted Sansa’s musings, and she stood to attention, eyes returning to the comforting face of her father. ‘Sansa, Arya, Brandon and Rickon. My eldest, Robb, and my two wards, Jon and Theon, are in Algiers.’

Eddard then introduced each of the Americans by name, but Sansa forgot them as quickly as she heard them, and only remembered Colonel Clegane and his flashing eyes.

That evening, the family dined with the American officers. Sansa imagined that her father had hoped to provide a wholesome and picturesque French experience for their guests, who had seen nothing but horror since arriving on the shores of Normandy weeks before. Instead, Rickon refused to cut his steak and tried to chew it whole; Catelyn eventually grew tired of scolding him and sent him to bed without his supper. Arya then began to interrogate Colonel Dondarrion as to how he had lost his eye (was it Nazi shrapnel? Was it still lodged in his skull?) until she, too, was dismissed. Looking hopeless, Eddard turned an imploring eye on his eldest daughter and requested that she recite some American poetry for their guests. Ever the dutiful child, Sansa had risen in her chair, folded her hands primly in her lap, and recalled her lessons from finishing school; she had memorised a pretty Walt Whitman piece for her English final that might suffice. Eddard settled back in his chair, a proud twinkle in his eye, as she began – but Sansa had barely finished the fourth verse ( _if thou was not granted to sing thou would’st surely die_ ) when Clegane, who had been brooding at the far end of the table for the duration of the meal, stood up so abruptly that his chair fell over backwards. Without so much as a word or a look in Sansa’s direction, he quit the room, leaving a thick silence in his wake. Though Dondarrion urged her to go on, Sansa felt that she could not quite unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth, and sat back down in her chair to a smattering of applause. She felt an inexplicable urge to cry, and counted down the seconds until port and cigars were brought forth and she could retire to her room.

It took Sansa a long time to fall asleep that night, and when she finally did, she was woken barely an hour later by deafening explosions above. Fear gripped her, a familiar constriction of the throat and rush of cold down her spine as she flew out of bed, bare feet soundless on the floorboards as she raced out on the landing. Any moment the bombs could blow the glass from the windows behind her – she had to be fast, faster than light, faster than sound, or she could be dead in seconds. Sansa’s toes barely brushed each step as she began to race down the stairs, first one flight, then two. She did not pause for breath until she had almost reached the mezzanine, when she ran headlong into a solid frame wearing an American officer’s uniform. Huge, warm hands caught her by the shoulders, and Sansa looked straight up into the chilling, storm-grey eyes of Colonel Clegane.

‘The little bird thinks she can fly, does she?’ he rasped at her, and through the haze of terror Sansa dimly registered that his voice reminded her of the crunch of gravel underfoot. ‘You’ll break your pretty neck, running down the stairs like that.’

And then, to Sansa’s shock, he raised a hand and ghosted the tips of his fingers along the side of her throat, the briefest of touches.

‘I…’ Sansa stammered, the chill of her fear quickly warming into something else. ‘The bombs-‘

‘Not bombs, girl,’ Clegane said gruffly, resuming his grip on her shoulders. ‘Fireworks.’

He snorted, and turned his eyes towards the window. ‘Dumb cunts celebrating. They wouldn’t be so fucking cheerful if they knew what it took to take this city back.’

Clegane looked sharply back down at her then, as if he had forgotten she was there for a moment. ‘You chirped so sweet at dinner,’ he commented, and Sansa felt the warm fug of wine on his breath as it brushed across her cheek. His eyes looked brighter than ever in the dim light of the streetlamps outside. ‘Your papa wheeled you out and wound you up like a cuckoo clock. How much useless shit are you keeping in that empty head of yours?’

Sansa glared up at Clegane, forgetting her trepidation for a moment in favour of her wounded pride. She wanted to speak, to defend herself – but she was too tired, and he was drunk. So she shook herself from his grasp, bid him a cold goodnight, and climbed the stairs to her room as slowly and calmly as she could manage. Only there, in the soft glow of her lamp, did she see that the roughness of his hands had pulled at the fine silk of her nightgown.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So excited to see people interested in this wack AU! Thank you so much for the comments and kind words, you keep me motivated to write more! xx

Sandor woke to a beam of watery September sunlight filtering through the high windows of his bedroom and immediately rolled onto his belly, burying his face in the soft down pillow. He felt groggy and nauseous, something he was no stranger to – but beneath the roaring hangover was also the nagging sensation of guilt, of having royally fucked up in some way. He cast his mind back to the night before, and the perfect storm of shitty events that had eventuated in him downing three bottles of Stark’s strong French wine. First, there was this fucking house – too big and too fancy, full of pink-cheeked, privileged children. The bed was too soft for a soldier like him, and he’d known from the second he’d seen it he’d either end up drinking himself into unconsciousness or sleeping on the floor like a tramp. Then there was that disaster of a dinner. Eddard Stark’s wife was a scold and a nag, and had ruined the smallest potential for enjoyment by sending her two most amusing children to bed early. Then there was the eldest girl, with her swan’s neck and her masses of auburn hair. She couldn’t be more than twenty, and when she’d started reciting that Whitman poem in her soft, tinkling voice Sandor had felt as if his heart was being squeezed in a fist. In her pale, untouched complexion and the grace of her posture, in the sweet, sorrowful words and the cadence with which she spoke, Sandor had seen all the innocence that this country had lost in the turmoil of war. It had made him terribly angry and, at the same time, bitterly sad – unbidden, his mind had conjured memories of the men in his command dying in droves on the beaches of Normandy, some before they had even reached the shore, and then again on the streets of Cherbourg. He thought of the ransacked houses of Jewish families they’d seen on the long march to Rouen, of children crying amongst the rubble in the aftermath of the bombings. He’d been so overcome that he’d stormed out and made his way to the cellars, where he helped himself.

At the thought of the Stark girl, Sandor’s niggling sensation of guilt swelled, and he remembered with a start that he had run into her on the stairs in the night. He couldn’t recall what he had said to her, only the painfully clear image of her wide cerulean eyes staring up at him in the dark, and the sharp angles of her shoulders under his hands. And her neck… he’d touched her neck.

Sandor groaned and flopped over onto his back, throwing one arm over his eyes. _You useless, drunk dog_ , he cursed himself. _Couldn’t keep your paws to yourself_. The last thing he needed was for the girl to go running to her papa and tattle on him – tensions were high between the French and the Allies as it was. Sandor could usually control himself fairly well when he was drunk; and he was drunk often enough. Dondarrion, the cheeky cunt, often remarked that for a man who did not believe in God, Sandor sure did drink religiously. It wasn’t exactly a habit befitting his station, and in the early days of his career his superiors had tried their best to stamp it out of him. But, they eventually realised, every keen military mind has its vice, and at least Sandor’s was not cruelty. He did his job, he did it quickly and well, and afterwards he liked to drink himself to a dreamless sleep. One could hardly begrudge him that.

But something about Sansa Stark had made Sandor lose his wits, and it bothered him. She was a pretty thing, he had noticed that from the moment he saw her – a man would have to be blind not to – but so were most of the women in France. It wasn’t her Grecian profile and fine features that had drawn his gaze more often than not at the dinner table. No, there was more to the Stark girl than met the eye, and it stirred something in Sandor. She was so prim, so put together, a little china doll in her dollhouse, and he felt the inexplicable urge to pick her up and shake her until something came loose. What it was he wanted to bring out in Sansa, he didn’t quite know, and he supposed it didn’t matter – he’d seen her staring at him when they first arrived, caught the look on her face. Between his scars and his ugly manners, Sandor felt sure he’d never get close enough to Sansa Stark to find out.

With a mammoth effort, he rose from the bed and doused his head in cold water, sluicing away the last remnants of sleep and his lingering hangover. As he reached for the fine linen towel the Stark’s maid had laid out for him, Sandor was struck by another memory from the night before; silk, beneath his fingers. He groaned aloud, recalling the thin confection of a nightdress that the Stark girl had been wearing. He’d felt the warmth of her through the fabric. Before he knew it, Sandor was conjuring a rosy fantasy of the garment slipping up the girl’s thighs, skin the colour of cream under his dark, calloused palms as he pushed the silk slip up, up, up…

‘Damn it!’ he cursed, glaring at his own reflection in the looking glass. The sight of his own face sobered Sandor up quickly enough. An ugly dog like him could never hope to touch a creature like Sansa Stark.

In the entranceway, Sandor met Eddard Stark coming from his study. He braced himself for a barrage of rage from the general, who would surely know by now that Sandor had terrified his daughter in the dead of night. But the older man gave him nothing but an affable smile and an invitation to join him for breakfast. Sandor would have liked to decline, but his traitorous stomach answered for him in the form of a deafening rumble, and before he knew it he was sat in the morning room drinking strong black tea and engaging in painful small talk with his host.

Mercifully, they were joined shortly afterwards by Royce, Dondarrion and Giantsbane, all of whom looked a little worse for wear. Sandor knew that they, too, had likely been kept awake by the fireworks and their own painful recollections of shellfire. Dondarrion quickly took charge of the conversation, and Sandor was at his leisure to sit back and drink the fortifying brew in silence. He had almost managed to relax, when the door burst open and in bounced the younger Stark daughter dressed in blue jeans and a men’s button-down shirt.

‘Father,’ she called, tossing her cropped hair out of her eyes. ‘I’m ready for my lessons.’

‘Lessons?’ Eddard blinked at his daughter, who was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, so palpable was her excitement. She looked about seventeen, but long-limbed and athletic like a boy. Arya had none of the feminine grace of her sister, and for some inexplicable reason Sandor found that he almost liked her. All the Starks were speaking English for the benefit of the guests, but Arya’s accent was shockingly thick, and Sandor had a feeling she had not paid as much attention in her school days as Sansa.

‘Yes,’ Arya huffed, rolling her eyes in a long-suffering manner. ‘You promised that when the Americans came to stay you would have them teach me to shoot.’

Eddard spluttered into his tea. ‘ _Ma cherie_ , I only said that we _might_ … that is, the officers are very _busy_ -‘

‘I’ll do it,’ Sandor rasped, standing abruptly. He didn’t fancy spending the morning playing make believe with a teenage girl, but the temptation to practice with his weapon after days of inactivity was too great, and it could be weeks before he saw any action at all. ‘I’ll teach her.’

The girl grinned wolfishly at him, while her father shrugged helplessly. Sandor trudged upstairs to retrieve his revolver. If the girl was good and didn’t annoy him too much, he might even let her try out his Luger. At least, he reasoned, it might keep his mind off Sansa for a few hours.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sandor are the best buds ever and I don't know why I don't put more of them in my fics

Sansa was cycling slowly homeward past the abandoned tramway depot when she heard the shots. Purely by virtue of instinct, she threw herself from her bicycle and took shelter in a hedgerow, heart in her mouth as she listened hard for more blasts, or the horrible wounded-animal scream of an injured man. For a long moment, all she heard was her own pulse roaring in her ears; and then a familiar sound rent the air, causing Sansa to leap up from her hiding place in confusion.

‘Arya?’ she screamed, head whipping from side to side as she tried to locate the source of her sister’s distinctive braying laugh. ‘Where are you, Arya?’

The whooping stopped abruptly, and then, from the depths of the old tram garage, Sansa heard her own name echoed back to her. Mounting her bicycle without even stopping to adjust her skirts, Sansa pedalled fast across the tracks and into the cavernous mouth of the great tin shed, skidding to a stop when she saw Arya standing with a revolver in her hand, and beside her, none other than the hulking form of Colonel Clegane. Sansa stared from one to the other as she caught her breath. Clegane returned her gaze coolly, his eyes flickering momentarily to take in her bare knees where her skirt had rucked up in her haste. Flushing, Sansa yanked the hem down to its rightful place and turned her attention to her little sister, who was looking for all the world like one of the Rosies in the highly-coloured posters Sansa had seen in cafés before the German invasion.

‘Arya!’ Sansa exclaimed, pointing a shaking finger at the gun in her hand. ‘What are you doing with that?!’

‘Colonel Clegane is teaching me to shoot,’ Arya explained, raising the revolver towards the target and mimicking the sound of gunfire. ‘I’m very good, aren’t I?’ she looked to Clegane for support, and Sansa wondered how her diminutive sister could look the irritable man in the face without an ounce of trepidation.

‘You’re not terrible,’ Clegane grumbled, shrugging one massive shoulder. Arya made a _tsk_ sound and turned back towards the target, this time squaring up with her feet far apart and both hands on the revolver.

‘If papa had let me learn earlier the Nazis never would have taken Rouen,’ she declared, squinting down the barrel.

Clegane barked a mirthless laugh and plucked the handgun from her grasp effortlessly, stowing it in its holster. ‘Aye, you’re a regular John Wayne. A few more years of practice and you might be able to shoot yourself a pigeon for supper.’

To Sansa’s consternation, Arya aimed a kick at Clegane’s shins. Before she could raise her voice to scold her sister, Clegane had stepped neatly aside and cuffed her about the head, knocking her off balance.

‘Get along with you,’ he growled, shoving Arya’s skinny shoulder in Sansa’s direction. ‘Lesson’s over. Go home with your sister.’

‘But-‘

‘ _Arya_ ,’ Sansa cut her sister’s pleading whine off sharply. ‘Come. Let the Colonel be.’

Arya huffed in annoyance, but made her way towards Sansa all the same, dragging her feet. Sansa stole a glance over her shoulder at Clegane. He was already striding away in the opposite direction, dark hair catching the sunlight, and she was afforded a long look at his broad back in the sharply tailored officer’s coat.

Beside her, Arya was babbling excitedly about her morning as they began to walk back towards home. Once, when they were younger, Sansa might have cycled while Arya balanced on the handlebars, shrieking and whooping – but they were too big for that now, and besides, it wasn’t proper.

‘Colonel Clegane’s got a Luger,’ Arya was saying, arms swinging as she walked in an unladylike fashion. ‘He said he might show it to me if I get good. I asked where he got it, but he wouldn’t tell me. I bet he took it off a Nazi he killed.’

‘Arya,’ Sansa sighed. She felt an odd twinge of some unfamiliar emotion in the pit of her stomach at the thought of Arya chatting away so easily with the scarred, ill-tempered Colonel. ‘You can’t ask him that. War’s not a game, he probably doesn’t want to talk about it.’

Arya frowned and kicked at a tuft of dandelions, releasing a burst of seeds into the air. ‘The soldiers in the cafés are always bragging about the men they’ve killed. I’ve heard them.’

‘Killing’s nothing to be proud of,’ Sansa replied shortly. Arya seemed to recognise her tone, and fell silent at last. They walked together until they reached the bakery, where Arya bid her sister goodbye and slipped down the laneway to beg a burnt pastry from her friend who worked in the kitchens.

Sansa wandered on alone, feeling the heavy burden of sadness descending on her shoulders as she passed the empty houses of friends and neighbours long gone. At the end of the street she lived there was a beautiful villa, and she paused at the gate to look in. The garden had once been perfectly manicured, but was now a tangled mess of weeds. The front door had been ripped from its hinges and stood open, a great, yawning black mouth between sightless, broken-window eyes. Sansa’s friend Jeyne Poole had lived here with her mother and father. They had played together as children, and had been closer than sisters right up until the night the Gestapo ripped them all from their beds and threw them in the back of a lorry. Sansa had run out into the street, had seen the blonde German soldier with the boyish face and highly polished boots strike Jeyne’s mother with the butt of his rifle when she struggled. Sansa had cried out to Jeyne, and the soldier had looked right at her and smiled as he slammed the door of the lorry.

Sansa shuddered openly at the memory. For weeks after the Pooles were taken, that same soldier had come by the Stark household and asked after her. Sansa’s mother had always managed to come up with a quick lie – some errand she had sent her eldest daughter on – but one day he had come across her in a laneway as she walked home. Sansa could still taste the blood that had filled her mouth when he knocked her down onto the cobblestones.

Shaking herself from her reverie, Sansa took a deep breath and turned her feet towards home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandor's just a big softie with a nougat centre change my mind

After his shooting lesson with the little Stark hellion, Sandor had walked back to town and met Giantsbane in a café. He needn’t have bothered, as the great ginger lout had made the acquaintance of two French prostitutes and was telling them ribald jokes, laughing uproariously. The women appeared to be having a hard time understanding his Minnesota accent, and looked equal parts amused and terrified. Sandor joined them in their booth, ordered a glass of wine from the harried looking waiter, lit a cigarette and allowed his mind to wander as he watched the comings and goings on the street outside. His plan to avoid thinking about Sansa had been foiled by her very appearance, not to mention the sight of her long, pale legs as she came tearing into the depot like she was leading the peloton in the _Tour de France_. Her concern for her sister had been plain on her face, and there had been a cold fire in her eyes in those first few moments before she schooled her expression back into the mask of propriety she always wore. 

It was that fire that he thought of now as he drank his wine and observed soldiers loading rubble into a cart across the street. He wondered what lay under the surface of all that cool courtesy, and whether she had ever had any real opportunity to drop the façade. And he wondered why the hell he gave a shit – the girl was nothing to him, after all. In a few weeks they would move on; Paris had already been liberated, and there was nothing to hang around for anymore. Best to carry on and let the French clean up the wreckage behind them.

‘My friend,’ Giantsbane was saying to the women across the table from Sandor. ‘They call him The Hound. Do you know why?’

The women smiled prettily and shook their heads.

‘Because he fights like a dog, and he fucks like one, too!’

This joke, at least, the women seemed to understand, because they joined in Tormund’s laughter, and the one with the raven’s wing hair winked at him. Sandor snarled at the three of them to _fuck off_ , drained his wine glass, and left without another word. Tormund called after him, but Sandor wasn’t in the mood.

Quite frankly, he was never in the mood. The military suited him in many ways; it was methodical, logical, a battle of wits as much as strength, and it was a career befitting his particular talents. Before the war, he had been a boxer – violence was a family trait, after all. Sandor had risen quickly through the ranks after enlisting, but there was one aspect of military life that he had never managed to grasp, and that was camaraderie. Sandor did not make friends easily, nor did he have any patience for all the horsing around his subordinates and fellow officers seemed to enjoy. It made him a good leader, for the most part, but it also meant that he often sought solitude, which was hard-won in the army barracks. He decided to find some now, and wandered back to the Stark house. In General Stark’s library, he found a comfortable chair, a decanter of port, and perfect silence for several hours.

He was engrossed in a richly illustrated cartography of Melanesia when the door opened, and Sansa Stark slipped into the room. Sandor, annoyed at having his peace disturbed, was about to bark something rude, but the words caught in his throat. Instead he watched her pad softly over to a row of leather-bound novels and begin to peruse the titles, her head at a pensive angle. The sun was setting outside, casting fingers of golden light that illuminated the bronze crown of her head and the dust motes swirling in the air above. Her long neck bent so exquisitely, her curtain of hair falling over her shoulder to reveal an expanse of smooth, unblemished skin and one delicate ear, perfectly curled like a sea shell.

Before Sandor knew it, the power of speech returned to him suddenly, and he blurted out, ‘Botticelli.’

His voice was painfully loud in the deep silence of the library, and the girl started, whipping around to face him with her hand over her heart. She had that look in her eyes again, Sandor noticed. She said nothing, only stared at him until he cleared his throat and added,

‘Angel. Botticelli angel. That’s what you look like.’

Even as he said it, he wondered whether he was experiencing some kind of delayed onset shellshock. Sandor Clegane never waxed lyrical. Sansa lowered her eyes, tucking her hands shyly behind her back as she murmured, ‘I thought I was a little bird.’

Sandor blinked. How could she know that he had been calling her that in his head? Unless… in his wine addled state, he must have said it out loud the night before. He cursed himself for what felt like the thousandth time that day and shook his head to hide his embarrassment, looking back down at the book in his lap.

‘Only when you’re chirping,’ he remarked gruffly. He had hoped that the conversation might end there and she would let him be, but she hovered on the edge of his peripheral vision apprehensively before finally speaking again.

‘Do you read French?’ she asked politely, taking a tiny step closer and nodding at the tome he held.

He shook his head again, and said, ‘just looking at the pictures, little bird.’

When he chanced a glance up at her, she was smiling. ‘Rickon likes to do that, too,’ she offered.

Sandor wondered if she was teasing him. He hoped that she was. He almost tried to return her smile, but then he felt that damned twitch in his scarred cheek and instantly resumed his usual scowl. To his amazement, however, she tried again.

‘I hope that my sister didn’t annoy you today. I am sorry, she can be very-‘

‘Stop that!’ he barked. ‘You don’t have to apologise for her.’

‘I- I’m sorry,’ Sansa stammered, and Sandor put the book down in annoyance.

‘I said _stop_! Don’t you get tired of doing that?’

‘Doing what, _monsieur_?’

He stood, and took a few steps towards her. He could not help it. He was drawn to her.

‘Doing as you’re told,’ he rasped. ‘You’re just a little bird in a cage, aren’t you? Singing the songs you’ve been trained to sing. Can’t you think for yourself, for once?’

Sansa’s chin raised then, ever so slightly, and Sandor saw a little more of that cold fire flash behind her eyes. It made his heart race.

‘Yes,’ she said. Her voice was stronger than before. ‘Yes, I can.’

‘Don’t you realise,’ Sandor stepped closer still, but she did not flinch. ‘How close you came to losing your freedom?’

‘Do not think that I have not been touched by war, as you have, _monsieur_. I have known suffering. I know how lucky I am to be alive.’

Now it was Sansa’s turn to advance on him, and a pretty flush spread across her neck and cheeks as she turned her face up to meet his gaze. Her next words were barely more than a hiss. ‘Do not presume to know me, Colonel Clegane.’

Sandor looked down at the girl with nothing short of wonder. He had not imagined that she would respond to his bait in this way, and he felt a little ashamed – but more than anything, he was aroused. Sansa’s plump lips were parted and so very close to his own. His hand rose unbidden to brush a lock of stray lock of hair behind her ear, so gently that he barely brushed her cheek in the action, and her eyes widened, the blush deepening imperceptibly.

‘What have you suffered, little bird?’ Sandor’s words were a rumble, low in his chest, and when she took a deep breath he imagined that she was drinking them in. Something in the question made her bottom lip quiver. He wondered if anyone had asked her before, or if she had carried her burden in silence. He knew a little something about that himself.

When he thought back on the moment later, Sandor did not know what might have happened then if the maid had not dropped a tea tray in the entranceway. They both started at the sound, and then Sansa was gone, as quickly as if she had faded into the ether. He could have sworn he felt the absence of her warmth in the space that she left behind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for memories of assault and reclamation of sexuality in this chapter. One thing that pissed me off about the show was how much they used assault as a plot device for character development, without ever showing healthy recovery. So I wanted to give Sansa that. Otherwise this is just two love bugs being horny lil devils, enjoy!

After helping Mathilde clean up the tea things, Sansa climbed the stairs to her room and locked the door behind her. She sat calmly at her dressing table, and stared at her own reflection for several minutes. It seemed unfathomable to her that her appearance should not have altered since that morning, for some monumental change had occurred within Sansa. That same strange warmth that she had felt on the stairs the night before when Clegane had touched her neck was now consuming her, her very skin afire with the feeling. She had felt it coming as he stalked towards her in the library, reaching a fever pitch even as her anger at his insolence made her tongue loose and sharp. When his cold grey gaze flickered to her lips, Sansa realised with shocking clarity that she wanted him to kiss her, and it was the fear of that realisation that had made her run from the room when the crash outside brought her to her senses.

Sansa knew that lust was nothing to be ashamed of, even if her devout mother had taught her that is was. She knew that girls her age often had several sweethearts before marriage, and in wartime it was not unusual for a man and a woman to take comfort in one another. She was no innocent flower; she had read books – one of which had referred to young, virginal French women as “hothouse plants” – and magazines, gossiped with her schoolfriends and overheard all sorts of bawdy talk. Sansa had been curious, once – in the quiet, dark hours, she had explored her body and its myriad of sensations, had begun to turn an appraising eye to men she passed in the street. But something died that day the blonde German soldier held her down and pinched at her flesh with cruel, spiteful fingers. Sansa realised that her body could feel pain acutely, as well as pleasure, and in her young and inexperienced mind the line between the two became blurred until she lost all interest or desire for the latter out of fear of the former. But no more; the curiosity of her younger years was back with a vengeance, and Sansa could not shake the memory of Colonel Clegane’s huge hand, strong and calloused but touching her with such reverence and tenderness. Though she was sure he was capable of great violence, she had felt none of it in his caress. His eyes had been so raw and hungry, and the intensity that had scared her not twelve hours ago now drew her inexplicably to him.

And the way he had _goaded_ her! It was infuriating, and hardly proper, but something in Sansa had liked the way he prodded at her, tried to peel back her layers, as if he was the only one who recognised her as a human being, not just a mere shell of a girl. She felt _seen_ , for the first time in her life – and though it was more than a little frightening, Sansa’s blood sang with anticipation.

The family ate supper in their rooms that night – perhaps General Stark was remembering the disaster of the night before and did not wish to tempt fate by parading his children before the American officers again. Sansa was glad of it. She wanted time alone with her thoughts, and her newfound bodily awareness. When her supper was eaten and Mathilde dismissed for the evening, she turned the lock on her bedroom door in case Arya came snooping and drew the heavy curtains across her window. Sansa carried her lamp closer to the dressing table and there, bathed in the soft glow, she slowly and deliberately disrobed, taking care to notice each body part as it was exposed. For a long time she had paid no attention to her body; in her mind, it had become a traitor, and in her bitterest moments she had often reflected that beauty was truly a curse that had brought her nothing but pain and humiliation.

Now, she remembered the heat in Colonel Clegane’s gaze as he looked down at her, and tried to see herself through appreciative eyes. She took in the long line of her throat, the sharp planes of her décolletage as she slowly unbuttoned her blouse. Her breasts had never been large, but they sat high on her ribcage, two twin teardrops with small, dark nipples barely visible through the thin silk of her chemise. Sansa let her shirt fall down her arms, took in the lines of her shoulders and counted the freckles where she had caught the sun. Next, she unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor in a heap, stepping over it to take a closer look at her legs in the mirror. She was tall for a woman, and most of her length was in her legs. Many years of cycling had shaped them with lean muscle, and even Sansa had to admit that they were good legs. She shed her chemise, felt her breasts experimentally – they just fit in her hands, and with a blush she reflected that Clegane’s large palm would cup them easily. Her hands moved down, over the flat expanse of her stomach to pinch gently at the flesh of her hips, which were wider than her other proportions might suggest. Childbearing hips, Catleyn had remarked more than once. Sansa hooked her fingers into the cotton band of her underwear, and bent slightly to remove them. Now she was naked, and she gazed steadily at her form as if seeing it for the first time. She let her hair down, and it fell in thick waves about her shoulders, unfashionably long. Between her thighs was a thatch of hair the exact same shade. She felt the texture of it with her fingertips. Unbidden, the memory of Clegane’s eyes drinking her in came back to her, and Sansa felt the heat rise up in her belly again. She switched off the lamp and slid beneath the covers of her bed, not bothering to don her nightgown, and retreated to thoughts of warm, thickfingered hands and a voice like gravel underfoot.

One floor below, in one of the many guest bedrooms, Sandor Clegane was also lying awake. He had tried not to drink too much that night; this was one of those rare occasions upon which he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He folded his arm behind his head and gazed up at the ceiling, watching the flash and fade of distant searchlights illuminate the cornices. He was reflecting on the pattern of the blush on Sansa’s high cheekbones and how it reminded him of frost on a window pane in deep Oregon winter, the minuscule particles forming a delicate lattice. The heat blooming beneath Sansa’s fair skin was as much of a wonder to him.

The hand that had been resting on his bare chest slid beneath the covers, closing in a tight fist around his cock. He’d been half hard all bloody afternoon, and it was all he could do to wait this long to take himself in hand. Sandor had to stifle a moan at the relief the contact gave him, and his member quickly swelled to its full potential as he began to make slow, lazy strokes down the shaft. He thought about the perfect triangle that formed between the points of her shoulders and her lithe waist, the proportions expertly designed. Her figure had looked so clean and strong as she cycled into the depot that day. At the memory of her supple white thighs flashing in the morning sun, muscle shifting and bunching as she threw one leg to the ground to support herself, Sandor’s hand moved a little faster.

She would be timid at first, he imagined – inexperience and natural, girlish shyness combining to make her blush and giggle when he coaxed her down with his hands, soothing and stroking as he slowly undressed her. But then the fire would light behind her eyes, and the strength she showed him in the library would take hold. She’d need only a little encouragement to meet his passion with her own, Sandor felt sure. He imagine them rolling together endlessly, a push-pull of hips and hands and lips as ceaseless as waves on a shore, and she would sigh his name and hold him tight, tighter, tighter still, meet his eyes with hers and touch his scarred cheek with her soft hand and-

_‘Fuck_ ,’ Sandor cursed as his orgasm ripped through his body, more intense than any he could remember. He lay in the afterglow for a long moment as the fantasy slowly ebbed away. It left an emptiness in his gut, and when he rose from the bed to clean himself at the washbasin, he found the tracks of tears on his face that he did not remember shedding.


	6. Chapter 6

When Sansa dressed the next morning, it was with far more care than usual. She brushed her hair until it shone, and chose a pair of figure-hugging woollen slacks that she had long ago given up as being too suggestive. Sansa had spent much of the night exploring her body, and the sensations that her touch combined with thoughts of Colonel Clegane could conjure up. It had been wonderful, but she felt as if something was always out of reach – a peak that she could not quite scale. She had writhed and sighed in her frustration until, exhausted, she had fallen asleep in a rumple of sheets. Sansa felt resolved to solve the mystery of whatever it was she could not obtain, and was already making plans to conduct thorough research, when she was distracted by raised voices coming through her open window. Curious, she pressed her face to the glass and peered down into the back garden.

There was Colonel Dondarrion, watching and laughing heartily as Arya attempted to box with Clegane. Sansa looked on in mute horror as her sister swung wildly at the much larger man’s face, her hooks enthusiastic but by no means polished, until she fell back to catch her breath, dancing on the balls of her feet. Colonel Clegane himself was dressed only in trousers and shirtsleeves, his heavy olive-green coat thrown forgotten over the back of Dondarrion’s chair. Even from this distance Sansa could see the dusting of dark hair that covered his forearms, and thick, corded muscles as they flexed with his movements. Arya squared up again, this time trying for an undercut. Clegane deflected the blow as easily as he might bat away a fly. He barked a laugh, then gestured for her to try again.

Sansa felt that same unpleasant tug in her belly that she had experienced at the tramway the day before. The feeling only grew as she watched them interact, until she realised with a start that the sensation was jealousy. She drew back from the window. Sansa had never been jealous of Arya in her entire life, but now she longed to have her easy confidence, her seemingly instant connection with the mysterious and grumpy Colonel. Electrifying as the tension between them was, Sansa ached to see a little of his soul; to know what lay beyond the gruff exterior. She returned to her toilette somewhat deflated, and listened to the sounds in the courtyard below until her mother’s voice joined the fray and began to scold Arya for her waywardness. Sansa got up to close the window then, and as she did so the movement must have caught Clegane’s attention. His head whipped up and his eyes met hers, and suddenly Sansa felt as she had been the night before. Her cheeks burned as she latched the window and moved away quickly, equal parts embarrassed to have been caught watching and aroused by the magnetism of that penetrating gaze.

Sansa did not see the American officers for the rest of that day – when she came downstairs they were nowhere to be found, and Arya was being chastised heavily in the morning room by their mother.

‘ _Maman_ ,’ Sansa’s little sister was saying in an exasperated tone as she entered the room. ‘Colonel Dondarrion told me that Colonel Clegane was a famous boxer in America. He said he could teach me to _knock a man flat on his ass_.’

The last few words were intoned in an affected American accent, and Sansa fought to stifle a giggle as she busied herself making tea.

‘Arya, how many times do I have to remind you that you are a _lady_? You don’t need to know how to throw a punch!’

‘She might,’ Sansa intoned, then shut her mouth with a snap as she wondered what had just come over her. Her mother and sister stared at her, clearly thinking the same thing, and Sansa gave a casual shrug. ‘Oh, you know,’ she said airily. ‘It’s good for a woman to be able to defend herself. It says so in the papers,’ Sansa added as an afterthought, though it sounded a little lame.

‘See?’ Arya rounded on her mother again. ‘Even _la grande dame_ Sansa thinks I should learn! I’m going to ask papa.’

And with that, Arya stormed out of the room. Catelyn turned an accusing gaze on her eldest daughter.

‘Now, see what you’ve done,’ she remarked sharply. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Sansa, I really don’t. You’ve always been such a good girl.’ Catelyn tutted to herself as she followed in Arya’s wake, intent on damage control.

_If only you knew_ , Sansa thought to herself as she stirred her tea.

She tried to go about her day as normal, but Sansa found herself oddly listless and distracted. More than once, she caught herself gazing off into space, daydreaming. In the afternoon, she made an effort to sew; but the fourth time she pricked herself with the needle she gave up. The house felt suddenly quiet and empty without the Americans, though they had barely been there for two days.

At dinner, she raised the topic as casually as she could.

‘Papa,’ Sansa began in what she hoped was a nonchalant tone. ‘Won’t the officers be joining us?’

‘No, _ma ch_ _érie_ ,’ Eddard replied distractedly as he watched Rickon stabbing his peas with unnecessary force. ‘They have left for Louviers. There have been reports of German snipers left behind in the retreat.’

‘Will they be back?’ Sansa asked, too quickly.

‘Yes, they will be back, once the threat has been dealt with.’

‘Clegane _has_ to come back,’ Arya interjected. ‘He said he would show me his Luger.’

‘ _Colonel_ Clegane will return, I’m sure,’ their father said, not ungently. ‘He’s a great soldier.’

‘Eddard,’ Catelyn had joined the conversation now, her tone sharp. ‘Aren’t you going to put a stop to this? Your daughter made a most improper display in the garden today.’

‘My, my! We cannot have that. The squirrels will surely talk,’ Eddard waggled his eyebrows good-naturedly to the amusement of his children. His wife, however, looked sour.

‘So, you would have Arya making a mockery of the family, would you?’

‘Catelyn, please, we are at war! If the worst thing that happens to my daughters is that Arya learns to land a right hook, I will be a very happy man.’

Sansa stared down at her plate as silence descended on the table once again. Her appetite had vanished. She often wondered whether she should have told her family about what had happened with the German soldier, but at the time she had been too ashamed, and had not wanted to worry them. Besides, the French did not look favourably on women who carried on with Nazis, and Sansa had been terrified that she would be labelled a sympathiser.

 _There’s an improper display for you, maman_ , she thought bitterly as she played with her food. No, she could not tell her parents; Sansa would carry that burden alone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh Sandor my lil cinnamon muffin

It had been three days since Sandor had left the Stark house for Louviers. They’d received a hero’s welcome, and were brought into the officers’ quarters for a briefing. The rumours appeared to be true – a few German snipers were squirreled away about the town, and had already picked off a number of unsuspecting Allied soldiers. The first suggestion was to starve them out – Clegane dismissed that with a sharp word. That could take months, a luxury they did not have. And besides, it was a shit way to die, one he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemies. He asked to be shown the various positions.

The first was a lone man on the roof of a textile factory, shielded from view by chimney stacks. The bodies of four Canadian soldiers lay in the street below – no one had been able to retrieve them. Sandor squatted behind the sandbags that had been put in place and watched for a long time. Beside him, the commanding officer fidgeted and offered advice. Sandor quickly grew tired of this, and exchanged looks with Dondarrion, who led the man aside under the pretence of discussing tactics.

Sandor waited.

As a boy, his family had been poor, and there was rarely enough to eat. His father was a drunk who prioritised wine over putting meat on the table. So Sandor had taught himself to catch rabbits. He would chase them into their burrows in the hillsides behind his hometown, and then he would squat just above the entrance, poised and ready. Sometimes the rabbits took hours to come out; sometimes, they never came out at all. But Sandor would think of his mother’s face when he came home with a fat cottontail, and of his own empty belly, and the waiting didn’t seem so bad.

Taking out a sniper was much the same. It required patience, a keen eye, and a fast hand. A German in a crow’s nest with a Mauser was a difficult thing to beat – but not impossible. Sandor had his Springfield poised at the ready, perfectly placed on the sandbags, and he stayed low as his eyes scanned the rooftop. Sure enough, after a long stretch of stillness, a helmeted head emerged slowly into view. Sandor watched through the sight as the soldier scanned the empty street. His finger squeezed the trigger ever so slightly, waiting until the man turned his head just so, exposing enough of his profile for Sandor to take the shot. He fired, startling a flock of pigeons that were roosting in the eaves of the factory. In the silence that followed, Sandor heard the dull thud of a body hitting a hard substrate. A few tiles came loose from the roof and smashed on the street below, and then… nothing. Soldiers appeared from nowhere and began to cheer, but Sandor was already walking away.

They took out three more that day. Sandor let Dondarrion have one, and remarked dryly that he was only such a crack shot because he didn’t have to bother to squint. Dondarrion only grinned good-naturedly. That night, they slept in the officers’ barracks, and on the next day they were taken to the town square. It seemed they had saved the best until last – or perhaps the worst. As far as they could tell, three Nazi soldiers were hiding in the clocktower, with a 360°view of the courtyard below. The square was littered with bodies – they had waited until the town was liberated and people began celebrating before they opened fire. Not only soldiers lay there, but civilians, too. Sandor approached the sandbag barrier at a crouch, staying low as he took in the scene. At the barricade, he was greeted by a pale-faced Canadian boy likely no older than Sansa Stark herself.

‘Can’t get a clear shot, sir,’ the boy reported, white-knuckling his rifle. ‘They’ve got us pinned. Can’t get any closer, neither.’

Sandor squinted at the surrounding buildings, looking for a vantage point. There was none. The Germans had picked the perfect crow’s nest, he had to give them that.

‘No use for it,’ Sandor grunted. ‘Got to use anti-aircraft.’

‘Beg your pardon, sir, but we can’t,’ the soldier squeaked. ‘Townsfolk won’t have it. They don’t want the clocktower damaged.’

Sandor gave the boy an incredulous look. ‘You’re fucking joking.’

The soldier shook his head rapidly, helmet rattling around on his head. Sandor grew suddenly angry.

‘Have they looked at the fucking square?’ he demanded, jerking his thumb towards the courtyard. ‘There’s your fucking townsfolk, shot down like dogs in the street. Fuck them.’

The boy looked visibly distressed. ‘Can’t do it,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll call the major. Major Watkins, sir!’ he hollered, and to Sandor’s horror, raised himself up on his haunches as he looked back down the street.

‘Stay down, boy!’ Sandor hissed, lunging forward to pull the soldier back below the safety of the barrier.

A single, sharp shot rent the air. When Sandor hit the ground with the Canadian boy beneath him, the kid was dead. Sightless eyes stared up at him, and Sandor felt his gut twist painfully. Another dead boy who would never get home to his mother. Rage consumed him and he roared to Dondarrion, who watched on from a safe distance, ‘bring me a fucking Bofors!’

He crawled on his belly like a snake away from the barrier, standing when he reached the other two men. Dondarrion was looking hesitantly at the commanding officer, who in turn was protesting weakly. Sandor cut him off with a glare, and taking his shirt in his fist dragged the man closer until they were nose to nose.

‘I don’t give a fuck,’ Sandor growled. ‘There’s dead women in that street. Dead kids. You bring me a fucking Bofors gun and you bring it now.’

When he let the man go, he scrambled away instantly, calling for anti-aircraft. Dondarrion smiled wryly.

‘One of these days you’ll be court-martialled, Clegane,’ he remarked, then his face softened as he handed over a handkerchief. ‘There’s blood on your cheek, mate.’

The Bofors barrage did the job, as Sandor had known that it would. It took half the clocktower with it, and Sandor saw the rubble raining down on the civilians below as if in slow motion. There was something so macabre, so hauntingly sad about the way they lay – almost as if sleeping. He watched as the Canadian soldier was carried away by his buddies, their faces drawn and grim. It touched some hidden part of him, and the sensation in his gut grew so painful he was almost crippled by it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucking love Sandor bye

They arrived back just after dinner on the fourth day, when the family had already retired for the evening. Sansa heard the unmistakeable rumble of a motor car pulling up; the slamming of doors in the belly of the house. There were no voices this time, though Sansa listened hard for Colonel Clegane’s distinctive growl. Soon enough, the house fell silent, and Sansa lay awake in her bed wondering what had happened in the time since she last saw him. What would happen tomorrow? Would he look at her in that same hungry way, or had she dreamed it all? She remembered those moments so vividly, and yet it would not be the first time her imagination had run away with her.

Hours later, anxious and tired of chasing the same doubts around and around in her head, Sansa gave up on sleep. She climbed out of bed, pulled on her robe, and padded downstairs to the kitchens for a glass of water. The house was silent as a grave, but in the distance Sansa could hear the whooping and hollering of drunk soldiers. The celebrations seemed to never come to an end now that Paris had been retaken.

It was dark in the kitchens, the only light a ghostly orange glow from the streetlamps filtering through the high, narrow windows. Sansa had only taken a few steps towards the faucet, however, when a movement caught her eye, and she started back. In the gloom she could just make out a hunched figure – so large it could only be one man – sitting at the scrubbed table, hands clasped tight around a tumbler.

‘Only me, little bird,’ came the low rumble of his voice as he raised the tumbler to his lips. ‘Didn’t mean to scare you. Again.’

Sansa’s pulse was racing, and she knew it wasn’t from the shock. There was that familiar fluttering heat in her belly, the tightness in her throat. She stepped towards him until she could grip the table for purchase, needing to feel tied down to something.

‘I heard you arrive,’ she told him softly. ‘I hope that your trip was successful.’

‘Successful?’ he repeated sardonically, turning his eyes on her. They glinted in the low light. ‘Men died. Plenty of theirs, plenty of ours. Would you call that successful, little bird?’

She said nothing. What was there to say? Eventually, Clegane looked away from her again, raking his hand through his hair with a deep sigh. ‘This fucking war. It’s a scourge. God sent locusts first, and when that didn’t work he just sat back on his ass and let us kill each other off.’ He laughed, a cold, mirthless sound. ‘Might be we deserve it.’

‘Don’t say that,’ the sound of Sansa’s own voice surprised her, and perhaps him, too. His gaze moved back towards her, but he did not meet her eyes this time.

‘You think there’s hope for us yet, do you?’

‘Some of us.’

‘Not me,’ he replied bitterly, and took another long drink. In the silence Sansa moved a little closer, edging around the table towards him. She felt sure that he could hear her heart beating, it was thudding so wildly inside her chest.

‘Why not you?’ Sansa asked.

‘Sweet little bird,’ the sound was half chuckle, half sob, and when he turned his eyes up to meet hers they looked immeasurably sad. ‘If only you knew.’

Hesitantly, and with the same cautious control of movement one might approach a wild animal, Sansa raised her fingertips to his face. She felt the stubble of his jawline, harsh and prickly but not unpleasant, and the warmth of his skin beneath. His eyes widened, and the despair in them seemed to grow even more vast for the briefest moment. But then they changed, as quickly as if a curtain had come down behind them, and Sansa found herself staring into the eyes of a feral creature. His hand closed around her wrist, and she took a step back, startled.

‘What’s the matter, girl?’ he sneered, rising to his feet to tower over her. ‘Afraid the dog might bite?’

Only days ago, the change in him might have scared her, sent her running back to the safety of her rooms. But Sansa had felt the gentleness of his touch – and even now, with a tight hold on her arm, he did not hurt her. She had seen the depth of him only moments ago. He carried sorrow with him – a great burden as heavy as her own. This angry show of flashing eyes and bared teeth was nothing more than a mask to wear, an armour to protect him from the world. And, if only for the briefest instant, he had allowed her to see past it.

‘You won’t hurt me,’ she said, willing her voice not to waver.

Clegane stared at her for a long time, and then slowly released his grip on her arm, stepping back as he did so. ‘No, little bird. I won’t hurt you.’

Sansa watched him turn and walk away, and though it might have been her imagination, she fancied that a little of the tension had gone from his broad bull’s shoulders. He closed the door to the kitchens behind him, and Sansa was left with nothing but the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the middle of nowhere for fieldwork and we keep postponing, which means lots of chapters for you honey buns. I hope you are enjoying this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it. If you are, please do comment and let me know because it keeps the fire burning under my ass xx

When Sandor reached his room after the encounter with Sansa in the kitchens, he threw himself into the armchair by the cold, empty fireplace and put his head in his hands. The whiskey he’d drunk was burning his throat, and though he swallowed hard it continued to choke him. The unbearable goodness of the girl both infuriated and entranced him; how could she bear to look him in the eye, touch his face, even as he growled and spat at her? He was a killer – had killed three men barely twenty-four hours earlier. Surely she could see the violence in his heart? Sandor slumped back in his chair, head hanging back to stare at the ceiling. That raw, unaffected sweetness drew him to her even more so than the spirit she had shown him in the library. He was hopelessly, utterly bewitched by her, and it was maddening. He allowed himself to slip into a waking dream in which he gathered up her masses of red-gold hair in his fist and kissed her neck until she quivered in his arms.

Sandor woke late the next morning in the same position, a crick in his neck and pounding in his head. Desperate for fresh air, he walked through the quiet house to the back garden, where an old oak tree provided a blissfully cool patch of shade. He had intended to lie down on the soft grass beneath it and go back to sleep, but Sansa was already sitting beneath it, knitting. Sandor wondered if she was haunting him. He wavered a moment when he saw her, considering going back into the house – but then he grit his teeth and crossed the patio towards her. His mood had improved somewhat since the night before, when the exhaustion and pain of the last few days coupled with too much whiskey had sent him spiralling into a pit of self-loathing. Perhaps he could even manage a civil conversation with the girl.

‘Don’t mind me,’ he grunted when she looked up at him, wide-eyed as a baby deer. He kept as much distance between them as the tree could afford, and stretched out fully on the grass, tilting his cap down over his eyes.

‘By all means,’ Sansa replied lightly, and there was a teasing lilt to her voice as she added, ‘make yourself comfortable.’

Sandor opened one eye and squinted over at her. Her head was bent low over her work, her hair a thick curtain between them. He could not see her face to know if she was smiling. He watched her for a long moment, the flash and click of the needles, before he grunted and closed his eyes again.

Silence reigned, punctuated only by the silvery sounds of the leaves rustling above. It was warm for September, with a soft breeze, a perfect day to while away the hours napping.

Unfortunately, however, Sandor was unable to relax. Even with his eyes closed, his every sense was highly attuned to Sansa. When the wind blew just right, he caught a hint of her perfume, vanilla and spice. She shifted her position occasionally, and Sandor heard the rustle of stiff cotton as she adjusted her skirts. Once or twice, she cleared her throat softly, and his pulse began to race at the idea that she might be about to speak – but she never did. Eventually his restlessness got the better of him.

‘What’s that?’

‘Hm?’

‘ _That_ ,’ Sandor repeated, gesturing towards the mass of wool in her lap.

‘Oh! I’m making socks,’ Sansa replied. ‘To send to the French soldiers in Algiers.’

Sandor opened an eye once more to look at her. Once, before he left for Europe with his regiment, Sandor might have scoffed at the idea of sending something so menial to soldiers on the front line. Now, he knew better. A clean, dry pair of socks could mean the world to a man who had spent months living in the bottom of a trench while his boots rotted on his feet. The ghost of some warm emotion stirred in his heart. He made an approving noise in his throat, and reached out across the distance between them to snatch up one of the finished socks. It was soft, rich wool the colour of red wine, and she had knitted a neat blue stripe around the top. The toes were perfectly tucked, the stitching tight at the heels. It was fine work, and he told her as much.

Sansa looked up at him and tossed her hair out of her face, beaming. ‘Do you really think so?’ she asked him, eyes bright and hopeful.

 _Sickening_ , Sandor thought, even as his heart swelled in his chest. He coughed loudly and tossed the sock towards her. ‘It’ll do,’ he grunted.

To his consternation, Sansa gave a tinkling laugh.

‘Something funny?’ he snapped, raising himself onto one elbow to glare at her.

‘You are funny,’ Sansa replied, then ducked her head as if embarrassed by her own boldness. She paused for a time, before asking, ‘why do they call you The Hound?’

‘And why would you want to know a thing like that?’

‘Because, _monsieur_ , I believe… what is the English expression? Your bark is worse than your bite.’

She was still not looking at him, and Sandor was equal parts annoyance and amusement as he rumbled, ‘this dog bites, little bird. If you keep teasing me, you might find out just how hard.’

Now Sansa did meet his eyes, and her own were sparkling with mirth when she said, ‘I am not scared of you, Colonel Clegane.’

‘Yes, you are,’ Sandor blurted out in a low voice before he could stop himself. The smile in Sansa’s eyes disappeared instantly. ‘I saw your face when I first arrived. You couldn’t even look at me. Don’t worry, girl, I’m used to it,’ he added, a hint of bitterness in his tone as he lay back down, avoiding her gaze and yanking his cap far down his face. ‘You don’t get many admiring looks with a face like this.’

He gestured towards his scarred side to emphasise his point. There was a long silence, in which Sandor could feel her eyes on him. In that moment, he desperately wanted to be left alone to brood, and he was just considering telling her to _fuck off_ when his hat began to creep up of its own accord. His eyes popped open. Sansa had leaned over and was gently pulling back the peak of his cap to look into his face. Sandor stared up at her, bemused.

‘It’s not your scars,’ she said softly, once she had an unobstructed view of his countenance. ‘I was afraid of your eyes. They’re so angry.’

Sandor took a moment to process that information. He’d never before considered the possibility that any of the people he came across who couldn’t look him in the face – and there were many – were afraid of something other than his scars. The thought made him sad, which, in turn, made him angry; a progression of emotion he was very familiar with. But as he looked up at Sansa, smiling tentatively down at him against a backdrop of swaying oak leaves, the morning light making a halo of her hair, he suddenly found the rage hard to hold on to. It slipped through his fingers like water, and was gone.

Before he could think better of it, Sandor raised a hand to touch her cheek. It was softer than silk, and to his amazement, she leaned into his touch.

‘Little bird,’ he croaked. ‘What did I say about teasing the dog?’

‘Who’s teasing?’ she asked him, her tone playful. In answer, Sandor slid his hand into her hair and gripped the back of her neck, guiding her towards him. He moved torturously slow, giving her the opportunity to balk but also savouring every sweet second as Sansa’s face inched towards his own, noticing every detail and committing it to memory. Her hair pooled on his chest, and her eyelashes fluttered as she looked from his eyes to his lips and back again rapidly. There were little violet veins on the veil of her eyelids, delicate as spiderwebs. Her breath was warm when it ghosted over his cheek. Sandor’s heart was hammering in his throat, and he felt sure he could feel Sansa’s pulse beneath his fingers, rapid as beating butterfly wings. There were freckles on her nose the colour of gingerbread.

And then, her lips were brushing tentatively across his own, and Sandor’s mental inventory ended in favour of closing his eyes to relish the sensation. He tightened his grip and pulled her closer still, until their mouths met in earnest and he was kissing her the way he had dreamed of every night in Louviers when he needed some warm thought to get him through the darkness and the distant shellfire. He pushed her lips apart with his tongue, felt her gasp and drink the air from his own lungs. She tasted of orange marmalade, and when she tentatively met his tongue with her own he sucked it gently. It felt blasphemous and filthy for a man like him to kiss such a perfectly formed porcelain creature, but the way she moved against him so naturally made Sandor certain in that moment that she had been made for him, and him alone.

When she pulled away at last to gasp for breath, Sandor was pleased to see that her pupils were blown wide, huge in her eyes, and that blush he liked so well was creeping into her cheeks.

‘Sansa Stark,’ he murmured, and though the words came out husky with his arousal he couldn’t bring himself to care. ‘You’ll be the death of me.’


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love '40s fashion so damn much and this was very nearly just a really long ass description of Sansa's outfit but we gotta have that yearning too

Sansa touched her lips a hundred times that day, trying to recall the sensation of Clegane’s mouth on her own. They had only kissed once before she heard her mother calling her from the house, and Sansa had leapt up to gather her things and run inside before she was caught in such a compromising position. At the back door she paused and turned. Colonel Clegane had raised himself up onto his elbow again and was watching her go, long, muscular body reclining languorously. His cap lay forgotten on the grass behind him, and a lock of his dark hair had fallen rakishly into his eyes. For the first time, the ghost of a smile was playing across his face, and Sansa had to marvel at how much it changed his face. He was achingly handsome in that moment, and her desire for him flared in her belly like a living thing.

She tried to go about her day as normal. She ran errands for her mother, and had to go back to the grocer twice because she forgot first the milk, and then the sugar. At the post office she stood lost in thought as the queue moved up around her, turning what should have been a five minute exercise into a chore that lasted almost three quarters of an hour. She looked in the window of the drapery store for so long that the proprietor came out and asked her if she needed help. Sansa politely declined, and hurried on her way. All she could think about was Colonel Clegane – what he was doing, whether he was thinking about her, and when she would see him again. She realised with a start that she did not even know his first name, and resolved to ask him the next time they were alone.

The family were to dine with the officers again that night. Eddard suggested that they serve cocktails in the conservatory before dinner to celebrate the victory in Louviers, which meant that Brandon and Rickon would not be present. Arya, being only a few months away from her eighteenth birthday, was allowed as a gesture of goodwill – she had been in a foul mood ever since Catelyn had scolded her in front of Clegane and Dondarrion. Sansa retired in the early afternoon to dress, her stomach bubbling with nerves as she set her hair in rollers and pawed through the various garments in her wardrobe.

Wartime rationing had been felt in every aspect of their lives, despite the Stark’s wealth. She had not had a new gown in two years, and looking at her closet now Sansa felt that she had outgrown everything in it. They were a girl’s dresses, in style if not in size – and she felt every inch a woman. Still, there was not much to be done about it, and after much deliberation she opted for a soft, oyster-coloured number with dainty, scalloped lapels and cleverly placed darts beneath the bust. The sash cinched her waist and elongated her frame, and though the skirt was full it fell elegantly about her knees, a far cry from the short, voluminous party frocks of her early teens. At her throat she fixed a jade pendant on a fine gold chain. Her hair was carefully styled in victory rolls, and opted for understated makeup. Though eyebrow pencils and mascara had become fashionable, and were still available in limited numbers, Sansa found that they did not suit her colouring and had long since given up on them. Instead, she swiped a little rouge on each cheekbone and a liberal amount to her lips, and turning her head from side in the mirror she thought that the effect was not at all bad. As the clock in the front hall began to chime six, she slipped on a pair of cream pumps and checked her reflection one last time. The pads at her shoulders gave her figure structure and strength, and with the added height of her heels Sansa felt almost Amazonian. That might have bothered her, once, when she wanted to be small and overlooked – but now she wanted to be seen. Experimentally, Sansa drew herself up and posed with her hands on her hips and her elbows cocked, as she had seen Katharine Hepburn do in _The Philadelphia Story_. For the briefest of moments, she felt powerful and polished like a movie star – and then embarrassment took over, and she giggled aloud at her own foolishness, thanking her lucky stars that Arya had not chosen that moment to enter the room. Sansa would never live it down.

Her little sister was waiting for her on the landing, her mousy hair scraped back and still wet from her bath. Sansa was glad to see that while Arya had chosen slacks as usual, they were at least clean, and not too short.

‘You look nice,’ Arya remarked. Sansa tried not to take offence at the obvious surprise in her voice, and smiled back. They walked down to the conservatory together in silence. Sansa was too nervous to talk, and Arya only ever bothered to speak when she had something to say. Sansa liked that about her.

The girls were the last to arrive at cocktail hour. Upon entering the conservatory, Sansa’s eyes immediately sought Clegane, standing by the window in earnest conversation with Dondarrion. All the officers wore their dark formal dress and medals. Sansa thought it was very becoming on Clegane, whose hair was neatly coifed, exposing the map of scarring that extended to his left temple. It brought out the colour of his eyes. He had not seen her yet, and she took a fortifying drink of the champagne cocktail Mathilde offered her. It settled her nerves some, and she made an effort to join in the conversation between her father and the red-haired officer, Giantsbane. It turned out to be a bad idea.

‘You’ve been blessed, General,’ the American said jovially as he nodded towards Sansa. ‘Gingers in the family are good luck. We are kissed by fire.’

Sansa flushed bright red from her neck to the roots of her hair, which prompted Giantsbane to roar with laughter.

‘See?’ he grinned, clapping Eddard, who also looked embarrassed, on the shoulder. ‘She’s burning up!’

Mortified, Sansa excused herself and hurried over to the sideboard under the pretext of adding seltzer to her drink. As she bent over the ice bucket, a pair of large, polished boots entered her field of vision, and she looked up into the very eyes she had been admiring a few minutes earlier.

‘Hello,’ was all Sansa could manage. She tried not to stare at his mouth.

‘Hello,’ Clegane returned, voice a barely audible rumble.

‘How was your nap in the garden?’ she asked him, fingers grasping her cocktail glass a little too tightly to stop them trembling.

‘I couldn’t get a wink. There was a little bird under the tree who wouldn’t stop chirping.’

There it was again, that ghost of a smile. Sansa grinned back at him, and his gaze travelled slowly down her body, then back up to her face. With a covert glance over his shoulder, Clegane leaned in imperceptible and murmured, ‘you look good enough to eat.’

Sansa felt the warmth of his breath brush her neck and couldn’t contain the shiver that chased up her spine. That hot, needy sensation in her lower belly was back. Clegane reached past her to add more ice cubes to his tumbler, and as he did so brushed his coarse knuckles across the tender skin at the inside of her wrist.

They might have been alone in the world for all Sansa cared. The briefest, most chaste of touches from him was enough to set her heart racing. There was an ache between her legs that Sansa longed to appease. Her gaze dropped momentarily to his groin as she wondered whether he felt it, too. Clegane caught her looking.

‘Sansa,’ he breathed, as if he could read her mind. ‘I’ve been thinking about how sweet you taste all day. Did you think about me?’

Sansa looked up into his stormy, magnetic eyes. Behind him, her parents were arguing with Arya about whether or not she should be allowed to drink straight whiskey like the men. It felt terribly wicked to be talking like this with Clegane while her family was barely out of earshot, but something about the risk made her want him more.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, licking her lips. ‘I could not wait to see you.’

‘Do you want me to kiss you again, little bird?’ he asked, leaning just a fraction closer. Sansa nodded frantically, and he gave a wolfish grin. ‘Meet me in the library after dinner, when your father brings out the cigars. And Sansa?’

She had begun to move away after nodding her acquiescence, but he stopped her, bending his head to whisper in her ear. ‘I couldn’t wait to see you, either.’


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all know that Explicit tag wasn't for nothing

Sandor had very little appetite at dinner, an unusual occurrence for him. The meal was rich and heavy, and while Dondarrion, Giantsbane and Royce chatted freely and ate meat and vegetables like they were starving, Sandor caught himself bouncing his leg restlessly beneath the table and watching the progression of the clock. He found some respite when Arya engaged him in a conversation about female Soviet snipers, a topic he found almost as interesting as she seemed to, but Catelyn Stark put an end to their talk quickly enough. Sandor stole glances down the table at the little bird, who was playing with her food and saying little. Once, she looked up and caught his eye, and the warmth of her look sent all the blood in his head rushing to his cock.

There was no telling how far she would go with him, and Sandor certainly wasn’t one to push. He was still counting his lucky stars that she had let him kiss her, and anything more would be nothing short of a dream come true. And yet… all day he had wondered about her. Wondered how soft the inside of her thighs would be, the backs of her knees, beneath her breasts. He had wondered what colour her pubic hair was, and if her nipples were pink like her lips, or brown like the freckles on her arms. He had wondered how far down her chest that pretty blush went, and he had wondered how her cunt would taste when he licked her to the peak of her bliss. His fist tightened around his fork as he remembered her soft little gasp as his tongue touched hers that morning. Sandor could not wait to hear her make that sound again.

When at last the dessert was cleared away, the Stark girls and their mother took their leave. Sansa was the last to quit the room, and she paused for the briefest of moments in the doorway to glance back at him. He nodded infinitesimally, and she slipped out with a smile. General Stark began to offer around cigars, but Sandor excused himself, feigning tiredness. He didn’t give a fuck if it was rude of him; he left the other men to their talk, and made his way to the library, checking over his shoulder to make sure no one saw him. Inside, the room was dimly lit, and he instantly saw the pale shape of Sansa’s dress, stark against the blackness of the shelves. She was standing behind the divan flipping through a novel, and looked up at his footsteps. Her eyes shone in the gloom. Sandor felt himself moving towards her as if in a trance. The little bird was a film star, an angel, an apparition. Her breast rose and fell rapidly, and as he reached her his hands closed around her waist, fingers gripping the athletic contours her back and thumbs barely brushing the sides of her breasts. Sandor pulled her to him. She melted against his body, and when their mouths met it was with far more urgency and passion than their morning tryst. Sansa opened her lips to him, tasting him with her tongue boldly, and without a moment’s hesitation he hoisted her feet from the ground and planted her buttocks firmly on the cushioned back of the sofa. Her arms came up around his neck, while his own hands dropped to her thighs to coax them apart and allow him to step closer. She obeyed with only a moments’ hesitation, arching against him like a cat.

‘Let me look at you,’ he rasped, breaking their kiss as his palms travelled up her legs in a firm caress, feeling the supple flesh through the sheer fabric of her dress. He drank her in with his eyes, squeezing at her hips and spanning her narrow waist with his hands before smoothing them down her back and filling them with her heart-shaped buttocks. Sansa gave a soft little moan and rolled her hips against him.

‘Please,’ she panted, even as she caged him with her thighs. ‘I don’t know your first name.’

‘Sandor,’ he growled, gripping her ass tighter as he pressed his hardness against the juncture of her legs. He watched her eyelids flutter at the contact, and his often-neglected ego purred. ‘My name is Sandor, little bird.’

‘Sandor,’ she repeated. He loved the way it sounded with the cadence of her accent. ‘I want you to touch me everywhere.’

And Sandor obeyed. He kissed her hot little mouth as his hands came up to cup her breasts, each a perfect handful. She wasn’t wearing a brassiere, and he pinched the pebbled little nipples through the silk before massaging them. Sansa seemed to like it, and he experimented with heavier pressure until she was gasping for air, her pelvis rocking instinctively against him.

‘That’s good,’ she whispered, looking up at him with hooded eyes. ‘More. Please.’

‘Greedy little thing,’ Sandor chuckled. His fingers went to the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons of her bodice, and before long he had stripped her to the waist.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he breathed, smoothing his hands up her ribcage. She was lean like a greyhound, and shadows pooled at her collarbones as she stretched her arms upwards to grip his shoulders. Her breasts were perfect. Their softness and symmetry reminded him of waterlilies on a lake, the nipples dark and tight with arousal. He palmed them again, and Sansa moaned in earnest, her head falling back to expose her throat, which Sandor began to kiss amorously.

‘Little bird,’ he murmured against her skin. He could taste the salt of her. ‘Tell me now, and tell it true. Are you a virgin?’

‘Yes,’ she murmured, and her voice was huskier than he had ever heard it. Sandor’s right hand left her breast and came around to support her spine as he fisted her hair, pulling her head back further to open her throat and jawline up to his mouth.

‘You say stop,’ Sandor told her between kisses. ‘I stop. Do you understand.’

‘ _Don’t_ stop,’ Sansa hissed. He laughed again, a throaty, grating sound, and dropped his left hand to her thigh to push up her skirts. Her thighs were just as soft as he had imagined – she was not wearing stockings, and he met no resistance until his fingers brushed the cotton of her underwear. Sansa gasped, and demanded _more_. Sandor withdrew his hand and straightened up to look down into her eyes, wickedness on his mind.

‘Where’s your courtesy now, little bird?’ he asked her. He traced light circles on the inside of her thigh, inches from where he knew she longed to be touched. ‘Maybe you should ask me nicely.’

‘ _Please_ , Sandor,’ she whimpered, gazing up at him imploringly. ‘Please, touch me. I ache.’

‘Here?’ Sandor cupped her mound, applying light pressure with the heel of his hand where he knew he would stimulate her most.

‘ _Yes_ , yes,’ Sansa breathed. Softly, so softly, Sandor trailed one fingertip up her slit, relishing in her warmth and softness. He rubbed soft circles over her clitoris through the fabric, barely making contact, teasing her until the lightest of touches made her cry out softly. Her thighs had fallen wide apart and she was slack in his grip, supported only by the strength of his arm at her back. At long last – as much from his own impatience as hers – Sandor traced back down and pressed his fingers against her slit, rubbing slowly and firmly until he felt her moisture soak through the thin cotton. He uttered a growl of approval, low in his throat. Giving in to his basest urges, he raised the hand to his face and inhaled her scent, earthy and sweet. Perfect. Sansa watched his every move, eyes wide, her chest heaving.

‘You’re wet for me, little bird,’ he told her as he returned his hand to her sex, moving her underwear aside with one finger. It was too dark to see the pretty folds of her cunt properly, or the colour of the soft thatch of hair that grew there. That would have to wait for another day, when he had time and sunlight to worship her in. ‘Christ, I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I saw you. I’m going to make you sing for me now, alright?’

Sandor met her gaze then, at once seeking to reassure and be reassured. Sansa’s eyes were liquid in the lamplight, and she nodded as her hand gripped the back of his neck tightly. Sandor began to stroke her, playing with the wetness between her lips and teasing the tight little entrance before coming up to draw circles around that magic bundle of nerves. Conscious of her inexperience, he did not penetrate her at first, but when she grew limp again in his arms and her eyelids fluttered closed, he gently pushed his index finger into her, carefully watching her face for any negative reaction. The tiniest crease formed between her eyebrows for a moment, but then she became used to the sensation and vocalised her enjoyment.

‘That’s right,’ Sandor growled. ‘Tell me what feels good.’

‘That,’ Sansa stammered as he moved the digit gently back and forth, a little deeper each time. ‘ _You_.’

Sandor could not help the crooked grin that spread across his face at that, and he felt glad that Sansa’s eyes were closed. He returned to her clitoris with renewed vigour, and Sansa started to moan in earnest. She began to stiffen under his touch, body winding tight as a bow string. The hand that had been in her hair came around to clamp down over her mouth, and Sandor pressed his temple to hers as he coaxed her closer to the edge.

‘Sing for me, little bird. Come on, I want to hear you.’

The pitch of her moans grew higher, muffled as they were against his palm. Her hands went to his shoulders, where they fisted the thick wool of his officer’s coat. Sandor’s blood sang in anticipation. He longed to feel her come apart in his arms.

‘Good, good girl,’ he rasped. ‘That’s right. Come for me.’

Sansa came. Unable to fight the urge, Sandor slipped his finger inside her again just to feel the flex and flutter of her cunt while she rode out the orgasm. She sobbed her pleasure into his hand, and he held her as she shuddered through the aftershocks and her moans turned into soft little whimpers and grunts. He would never admit it to anyone, but in that moment, Sandor Clegane felt very fucking proud of himself indeed.


	12. Chapter 12

Sansa felt removed from her body, as if her soul was floating in the darkness above her form and watching on as she slumped, prone and helpless, in Colonel Clegane’s – _Sandor’s_ – possessive embrace. She did not fully understand what had happened to her, only that she had finally attained that elusive thing she had been seeking in the silent, lonely nights since their last encounter in the library, and this man, who was breathing into her neck like a blown horse, had been the one to give it to her. She felt spoilt, cherished, and was suddenly overcome by a rush of affection for him. She wanted to make him feel it too, wanted to give him the same beautiful gift – though she barely knew how to begin. She stirred in his arms, reaching for the buttons of his trousers, but he caught her wrists in one of his huge hands and stopped her.

‘No,’ he choked out. ‘No more, little bird. No more tonight.’

He drew his head back to look down at her with molten eyes, and saw the pout that turned her mouth. He chuckled darkly at her disappointment.

‘Take some time. Think about it,’ Sandor told her, his voice husky as he began to draw her dress back up over her shoulders. Sansa did her best to help him, but her limbs felt sluggish and heavy. There was a throbbing between her legs, and wetness, too. ‘If you still want more, I’ll give you anything you want.’

There was a tenderness to his eyes, then. The fondness in her heart swelled. Almost instinctively, Sansa reached again for his crotch, not quite ready to give him up and not quite thinking clearly, either.

‘Sansa,’ he growled. His tone was sharp and authoritative and raw with desperation. ‘I mean it.’

Sandor glared at her until she nodded reluctantly, her hands dropping to her lap, and he bent his head to button her bodice, face clouded with concentration. A lazy grin spread across Sansa’s face as she watched him, and she giggled softly. Inexplicably, she felt almost drunk.

‘Big scary Hound,’ she teased. ‘All your threats are empty.’

He looked up at her, then, and the heat and intensity of his gaze made the smile fall instantly from her countenance.

‘Have a little patience and you’ll see I’m a man of my word. I could bend you over this couch right now and fuck you like the dog I am if I wanted to, little bird. But once I have you, you’ll be mine. I need to know you’re ready for that.’

Sandor smoothed his hands across her shoulders and down her arms, spreading warmth in the wake of his touch.

‘But you didn’t…’ Sansa gestured towards his groin and trailed off, helpless.

‘Having you come around my fingers is all the pleasure I need for now. Next time I’ll taste that pretty cunt, too.’

She flushed furiously at the coarseness of his words, even as she felt that treacherous heat pooling in her sex again. Sandor’s hand brushed across her cheek, then curled about her neck as he hummed low in his throat.

‘Fuck, I love the way you blush,’ he sighed, and bent to kiss her. Sansa opened her lips to him instantly – it felt only natural to do so – and he groaned against her tongue even as he sucked it into his mouth. His hand went to her hip again, and without warning he yanked her underwear down her legs, leaving her centre cold and exposed. Sansa thrilled at the thought that he had perhaps changed his mind, but then he was breaking their kiss and stepping away, watching her as he backed towards the door.

‘Goodnight,’ Sandor rasped, tucking the scrap of pale cotton into his pocket. Sansa’s mouth had suddenly gone so dry that she could not quite manage to say it back. The next moment, she was alone in the gloaming, legs still spread wide and heart beating a shameless tattoo of seemingly unshakeable desire.

That night, Sansa had strange dreams. When she climbed the stairs to bed, she was so filled with conflicting emotion that she had not thought she would be able to sleep – but as soon as her head hit the pillow, she slipped into a deep slumber. In her dreams, Sansa was alone in a dark void, a space she knew vaguely to be her bedroom in the same way that one always knew where they were in dreams, though in the inky blackness that surrounded her there was nothing to distinguish it. She was dressed in her nightgown, and she was cold. As she stood shivering, she suddenly felt a great weight at her back – a solid, immovable presence that radiated a delicious heat, and Sansa instantly felt that without that warmth, she should surely freeze and die. The weight pressed against her, covering her, and the sensation spread to her chest. It squeezed her there, an invisible presence, stimulating her nipples until they protruded through the thin silk. Sansa needed something, then, and the harder the weight crushed her the stronger her need grew. She writhed under its hold, bucked her hips against it, tried to open her legs as she sought desperately to ease the longing that consumed her.

‘Please,’ she whimpered, as the indistinct presence wound its way about her neck. It held her tighter and tighter, spreading over her body and touching her everywhere but the place she desperately needed to be touched. ‘ _Please!_ ’

And in the darkness, a voice answered. A voice that rasped like gravel underfoot. ‘No.’

Sansa woke to the pale light of dawn, lying flat on her belly, to find her hips pressing themselves hard against the bed. There was a raw, throbbing ache between her legs, and when she tentatively slipped a hand beneath the covers to press against her sex the feeling contracted and intensified, just as it had when Sandor touched her there. Her folds felt swollen, and between them she was slick and wet. What was it he had said, again? _Next time, I’ll taste that pretty cunt_ …

Sansa bit down hard on her pillow as a thrill went through her at the memory of his words. Despite herself, she wondered exactly what he meant by that, and how long she would have to wait to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's sexy dream has a double meaning - it's not just a reflection of Sandor denying her the d but also his reluctance to be vulnerable and open with her about who he really is. poor emotionally constipated Sandor xx
> 
> Also, in my mind Sandor is a bit of a dom who likes to take control but also really gets off on consent. For someone who has spent most of his life feeling like a monster i feel like all he really wants is mutual desire and attraction.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my angels and thank you for your patience, real life has caught up with me again but I will do my best to keep updating semi-regularly! this chapter is a bit shorter but it's a conversation that felt important to me to include.

Outside the Stark’s conservatory, well-groomed box hedges sheltered a paved patio furnished with deck chairs and a moss-covered bird bath. It was shaded by two great elms, and in its solitude and stillness it almost gave one the sensation of being underwater. Here Sandor sat in the late morning, relishing in the cool quiet of the spot as he reflected on the events of the night before. He was just slipping into a vividly detailed daydream when he was interrupted by none other than his host, who slipped through the conservatory door and greeted Sandor with a nod. 

General Stark dropped into one of the deck chairs and lit a long, slim cigarette before offering one to Sandor. The younger man took it gratefully – it had been a long time since he had smoked good tobacco – and was just thinking how glad he was that Stark did not feel the need to start a conversation with him when he did exactly that. 

‘Arya is looking for you,’ the general remarked. ‘She wants to see your Luger. I told her I saw you walk off towards town not half an hour ago – I believe I have thrown her off the scent, for now.’

Sandor grunted, thankful despite himself. The little she-wolf was more than he could handle just now. Stark took a deep pull on his cigarette, then sighed heavily.

‘War is easier than daughters. Even now, I can’t keep track of the two of them from one day to the next.’

Sandor chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully as he watched a fat bumblebee hover hesitantly over the tepid water in the birdbath. 

‘Sansa seems…’ he cast about for the right word and tried to keep his tone nonchalant and disinterested, even as the girl in question's underwear burned a hole in his breast pocket. ‘Well-adjusted.’

‘Sansa? Yes, she’s a good girl. Always has been. But I worry about her,’ Stark rubbed his chin. A faraway look came into his eyes. ‘I sometimes think that we pushed Sansa too much. Catelyn was very hard on her. We raised her to be the picture of charm and courtesy, and now I'm concerned that there is not much of Sansa left. That she is not her own person.’

‘She might surprise you, there,’ Sandor replied without thinking. The general looked over at him, gaze now sharp and shrewd. Sandor busied himself with re-lighting his cigarette and hoped he had not given away too much.

‘Perhaps,’ Stark said, at last. Sandor released a breath he did not realise he had been holding. ‘She has some strength to her, I think. Perhaps all she needs is the space to become the girl she was meant to be. As for Arya,’ he chuckled, and shook his head fondly. ‘My concerns for Arya are very different. Do you have children, Colonel?’

Sandor gave a derisive snort. 

‘Wife, then?’

‘No.’

‘Pity. Nothing keeps a man alive in wartime like the love of a woman waiting for him at home.’

‘Plenty of widows in this world,’ Sandor countered. He didn’t care that he sounded bitter. He’d written enough letters to the wives and girlfriends of dead men he'd commanded to know that sentiment didn’t mean shit in the face of tanks and machine guns. 

General Stark was looking at him again. Silence reigned for a long time. Far away, towards town, Sandor could hear the sounds of a crowd gathering. He didn’t think he could stomach anymore fucking celebrating.   
  


‘They’ll never understand, will they?’ Stark said at length. ‘When you get back home. They’ll never understand the things you’ve seen. The things you’ve done, and why you had to do them.’

Sandor met his gaze. Eddard’s eyes were the same colour as Arya’s, but they saw through him as easily as Sansa’s did. He suddenly felt raw, chafed; painfully vulnerable and exposed. 

The general leaned towards Sandor, and though he did not reach out to touch him, Sandor felt suddenly the reassuring warmth and weight of his presence, a paternal understanding that his own father had never made him feel.

‘When you join an army, your commanders try to teach you honour, bravery, loyalty. But the only thing we really learn in war is how to die.’

‘And how to take a life,’ Sandor croaked.

‘No,’ Stark answered, sitting back in his chair again. ‘I do not think we ever quite get the hang of that.’

The two men sat for several minutes more without speaking. Sandor finished his cigarette, watched the blue-grey wisps of smoke dissolve into the stillness of the morning, and tried to ignore the burning sensation at the back of his throat and behind his eyes. He tried not to think about all the men he’d killed, and all the ways they’d died, and how he hadn’t even given some of them the courtesy of looking them in the eye as he did it. But that was war, and that was the world he lived in, and while he generally believed it to be fucking awful he had to admit that since General Stark had taken him into his home, things did seem to be just a fraction brighter.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter: era-typical violence, panic attack, mentions of past abuse

Across town, Sansa was on her way home from the post office when she first heard the clamour of voices coming from the square. In the days since the liberation of the town it had become a common occurrence for people to gather in the street, drinking and revelling in their new found freedom, and Sansa was now used to it. But there was something different today. There was no laughter, no strains of music. It was an angry buzzing, as of a hornets’ nest, and as Sansa drew closer to the centre of town it swelled louder and louder until she broke through into the courtyard and saw them, a throng of onlookers congregated around the pavilion in the centre of the square. Men shouted and women hissed. For one wild moment, Sansa thought that perhaps some German soldiers had been captured and brought into town. She pushed her way through the crowd, slipping between angry onlookers until she was close enough to peer over the shoulders of those at the forefront and see what all the fuss was about.

There, beneath the gleaming white roof of the pavilion where Sansa had seen carollers perform every Christmas since she was a child, sat a line of women. Some she recognized – there was Ros, a buxom woman with strawberry-blonde hair and a vivacious smile, and next to her was a slight, dark-haired girl named Shae, who had worked in the Starks’ household for a time before the war. Ros’ face was red and tear-stained – Shae’s pale and drawn. As Sansa watched, the town barber stepped up behind Ros with a pair of clippers and grabbed her roughly by the scruff of her neck. The noise of the crowd swelled to a roar, and Sansa’s throat grew tight in horror as Ros’ pretty hair began to fall in clumps at her feet. The barber did not stop until her head was shaved bare, at which time he released her and moved on to Shae.

Stricken, Sansa turned to a woman next to her and asked, ‘What is happening?’

‘They lay with Germans,’ the woman answered simply, then spat on the ground to emphasise her disgust.

The press of the crowd became too much, then. Sansa was suddenly unbearably hot and terribly cold at the same time – she could not get enough air, no matter how hard she tried. She began to force her way back, unable to stomach the spectacle before her any longer. Behind her the throng rushed forward eagerly to fill the space she left, and Sansa felt bile rise in her throat. When she reached the edge of the square she doubled over. Her stomach heaved and tears stung her eyes.

_They lay with Germans_. The woman’s voice echoed in Sansa’s mind like the toll of a bell. She remembered with staggering clarity the weight of the soldier on top of her, the press of the cobblestones at her cheek. There had been coffee on his breath, and his hands had been soft and small but so, so cruel. She imagined her own hair, red as a sunset, falling in tufts around her as it was shorn from her head, and the pinched, angry faces of the crowd as they spat at her feet. _It could have been me,_ she thought, and blinded by her tears she began to run towards home.

Sansa came in through the back gate, almost stumbling over the uneven garden path in her desperation to reach the safety of her home. In the familiar sanctum of her bedroom she could hide – from her shame, the humiliation of what had been done to her, the judgement of the townsfolk and the little voice in the dark recesses of her mind. But someone stopped her before she could reach the back door. Sansa ran headlong into Colonel Clegane for the second time.

‘Little bird,’ he rumbled as he caught her by the shoulders. That ghost of a smile began to form on his face as he peered down at her, but when he saw her distress it faded instantly and was replaced by a deep frown of concern. ‘What is it?’

Sansa’s breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. Even as she tried to fill her lungs some immovable force squeezed at her chest and crippled her. Nausea was rising in her throat again. She could not speak. She could not even begin to tell him. Miraculously, though, Sandor seemed to understand. With that uncharacteristic gentleness that Sansa had seen in him before, he guided her to a bench beneath a sprawling elm and coaxed her into a sitting position. He knelt beside her as she rested her elbows on her knees and dropped her head into her hands, gasping sharply as she tried desperately to calm herself. His hand rubbed soothing circles at her back. Sansa felt warmth spread from his touch, and tried to focus on his words as he spoke to her softly.

‘That’s right, Sansa. Just breathe. Don’t talk.’

Through the fog of panic, Sansa registered the distinct feeling that Sandor had done this before. Eventually – it may have been minutes or hours, Sansa couldn’t tell – her breathing slowed and the constriction in her throat began to lessen. She took deep, calming breaths that shook with exhaustion as she released them, and wiped the tears from her eyes. She did not quite have the strength to feel embarrassed at being seen by him in such a state.

‘They’re shaving their heads,’ she choked out, at last. ‘In the square. The women who slept with the Germans.’

The hand at Sansa’s back became suddenly tense with restrained emotion. She heard Sandor mutter something that sounded like _fucking animals_.

‘Nobody did anything,’ Sansa sobbed. ‘Nobody helped them. I didn’t help them.’

‘Nothing you could have done, little bird,’ Sandor squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. ‘War makes monsters of everyone.’

‘Not you.’ Sansa raised her tearstained face to meet his eyes. She knew she must look a fright, but he gazed back at her with tenderness none the less.

‘Sweet girl,’ he rumbled, and wiped at her tears with the pad of one rough thumb. ‘I wish that were true. I was a monster before this fucking war even started.’

‘You’re not,’ Sansa gripped his hand then, hard. ‘I know you’re not. And I wish you would stop saying that you are like you want to push me away.’

Sandor huffed something that might have been a laugh, or perhaps a sigh. ‘I should push you away. I’m no good for you.’

The remnants of despair in Sansa’s belly burned away in a sudden flare of frustration. ‘That should be my decision,’ she snapped at him. ‘Just for once in my life I want to decide what happens to me.’

Sandor blinked at her. ‘The little bird has a sharp beak.’

Sansa gave a strangled chuckle, and reached out to grip him tightly by the hair and press her forehead against his. ‘Let me choose,’ she whispered. ‘Please. I choose you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not so fun fact but this actually happened - French women who had slept with Germans during the occupation had their heads publicly shaved. the events of this chapter also allude to that "they lay with Lions" scene in GOT.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who has commented on this fic so far, especially the last chapter. I never imagined that people would enjoy this so much, let alone that it would spark so much interesting discourse. I'm learning a lot from all of you and it's totally amazing, so thank you! 
> 
> Anyway, after such a heavy chapter I have a lil treat for you guys - nothin' but fluff

Sandor wanted to be cruel to Sansa. He wanted to snap and snarl and show her the blackness of his heart, to smother that little flame of affection that was burning behind her eyes as she looked at him now. She made him feel as if she were scooping up all the broken pieces of his soul and putting them back together, piece by piece. And he hated it.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to dash the tiny flicker of hope that sparked in his belly at the thought of giving himself – his whole self, such as it was – to Sansa. The mean words died in his throat – the Hound slunk away, defeated. It was Sandor Clegane who, in the next moment, took her face between his hands and said, ‘you don’t even know me.’

‘So let me,’ she countered, and before he knew it she was touching his scars, one fingertip tracing the peaks and valleys of traumatised flesh. No one had ever touched his scars. ‘Show me who you are, Sandor.’

He kissed her, hard, and tasted the salt of her tears still drying on her lips. It was all he could do. He could not speak, in that moment; he felt stretched out, naked and transparent under the gentle mercy of her piercing azure gaze, and though in many ways it was fucking glorious he was also absolutely terrified. In the possibility of love from this woman there was also the promise of emancipation. While Sandor had never believed in God – or, at least, not for as long as he could remember – Sansa held the power to absolve him of the iniquities of his past, a kind of forgiveness that was holier than anything he had ever hoped for before. He did not deserve it, knew that in his heart to be the truth, but if it was offered to him he would be a fucking madman not to take it.

Her lips were so soft under his own. She took tiny, gasping breaths as she wrapped herself around him, coming down to join him on the grass where they clung to one another. Her tongue slipped into his mouth. Sandor let her take control; he sensed that she needed to, in that moment, and he was also curious to see where it would take them. Sansa straddled his hips, fine linen skirts rucking up about her thighs, and fisted his shirt as she crushed her breasts against him. It did not feel overtly sexual in the way that their embrace in the library had, but it was desperately intimate all the same – she sank into him as if trying to fuse their bodies into one being. Sandor grasped her hips and squeezed at her flesh. He felt the sharp ridges of her pelvis beneath his thumbs, the twin dimples at her coccyx, and could not help the groan that escaped him. He burned for her. It was more than desire, more than lust, more than any of the baser human instincts he was familiar with; it was all-consuming, a need that he felt he would never be able to satisfy.

Sandor took a fistful of Sansa’s hair and bit gently at her bottom lip. To his delight, she responded with a moan of her own, and he felt her squeeze him hard between her thighs. He opened his eyes, and though Sansa’s were closed he saw the long, pale eyelashes stuck together with the tears she had shed not minutes ago. With a mammoth effort, he pulled away from her, bringing his hands up to hold her shoulders in what he hoped was a reassuring grip.

‘Sansa, you squeeze me with those thighs again and I won’t be able to control myself,’ his voice was painfully hoarse.

She smiled coyly at him, but he caught the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes that served to strengthen his resolve.

‘It shouldn’t be like this.’ Sandor brushed a knuckle along her cheek, and hoped that she understood what he meant. He couldn’t fuck her with tears still drying on her face. To his relief, Sansa nodded, and with a deep breath she climbed from his lap and sat primly on the grass beside him. Sandor had to stifle a laugh at her transformation from the wanton creature who had been grinding on his cock only moments ago to this perfect little lady. She reached out and took one of his hands in her own. He marvelled at the contrast; hers pale and soft, his own dark from the sun, covered in black hair and rough with callouses.

‘I trust you,’ Sansa whispered, and when he looked up at her she was smiling. Sandor’s first instinct was to tell her that she shouldn’t, and that she was a fool for thinking he had any goodness in him at all, but he remembered what she had said to him earlier and swallowed the words. He would let her choose. She deserved that much, at least. He took a fortifying breath, gathering his courage for what came next.

‘Walk with me tomorrow?’ he asked, and tried not to wince at how gruff, how unpolished he sounded. It was no way to court a woman like her, but it was the best he could do.

Her smile grew wider until it nearly split her face in two, and she beamed at him with neat, white teeth and gleaming eyes.

‘Yes,’ she nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, I would like that.’

Sansa leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek – his scarred cheek – then leapt up and hurried indoors.

Sandor sat where he was for a long time. His hand came up absently to press against the scrap of fabric in his left breast pocket. It was in his nature to be suspicious, sceptical of any good thing that came his way. His childhood had been riddled with pain and trauma, and his adult life had not been much better – it was self-preservation that made him as bitter and closed off as he was. But the ice around his heart was melting, and try as he might he could not bring himself to do anything about it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> name a better duo than Sansa and Arya I'll wait

Inside, Sansa had barely made it half way up the stairs before she was stopped by an indignant voice echoing through the entrance way.

‘What the _hell_ was that?’

Sansa turned to see her little sister glaring up at her from the foot of the stairs, arms folded across her thin chest. Her eyes were thunderclouds, and Sansa felt instantly guilty, though she feigned innocence when she swallowed and said, ‘what are you talking about, Arya?’

‘You and _him_! I saw you-‘

‘Shh-sh!’ Sansa shushed her, hurrying back down the stairs until they stood face to face.

‘You’ve been crying,’ Arya observed. Her solemn face pinched into a frown. ‘Did he hurt you? I’ll smash his big ugly head in if he hurt you.’

She cracked her knuckles menacingly, and Sansa recalled the sight of Arya attempting to box with the Colonel what seemed like a lifetime ago. She wanted to laugh, but her sister looked so serious and threatening then that she hurried to placate her.

‘No, Arya. He was comforting me.’

‘Comforting?’ Arya scoffed, her pitch rising as her scowl gave way to a look of disgust. ‘Is that what we’re calling it, now?’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘Well, I’m making it my business. What the hell is going on?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Explain it, then,’ Arya squared her shoulders and glared a challenge at her older sister. ‘Or else explain it to _maman_.’

The threat of Catelyn was enough to make Sansa back down.

‘Alright, alright,’ she said hastily, taking Arya by the arm. ‘Come up to my room before someone hears us.’

Sansa knew that she had been reckless. She had now kissed the Colonel twice in the garden, in full view of the drawing room and upstairs windows. Not to mention their tryst in the library, which anyone might have stumbled upon. She supposed she should be grateful that it was Arya who had eventually caught them, and not her parents. The repercussions for both herself and Sandor could be disastrous – while Eddard was a reasonable man, he was easily swayed by Catelyn, and if she demanded the Hound’s head for meddling with her daughter Eddard would be hard pressed to deny her.

In the safety of her room, Sansa shut and locked her door while Arya stood tapping her foot on the carpet in a show of frustrated annoyance. When Sansa did not speak, Arya gave an exasperated snort and said, ‘I can’t believe this. _La grande dame_ Sansa necking with an American in the garden.’

‘Stop calling me that!’ Sansa matched Arya’s irritated tone.

‘I might have to if you keep carrying on like this,’ this time, Arya sounded more teasing and less contemptuous. Sansa cracked a smile despite herself. ‘But Sansa, he’s so…’

‘You _like_ him,’ Sansa reminded her, cutting Arya off before she could finish her sentence. ‘You’ve been following him around everywhere since he arrived.’

‘That was before I saw him trying to suck your face off.’

‘ _Arya!_ ’

‘Oh, what? I’m not a child anymore. I know what you were doing. Just… why?’

Sansa shrugged, and sat down on the edge of her bed. Arya tentatively came to sit beside her, and Sansa felt a sudden rush of sisterly affection. The girls had not been close since they were both very young, and it was something Sansa had come to regret in recent years. The things she had disliked about Arya once had become the very things she admired most about her now; her strength, tenacity and confidence in who she was were all traits that Sansa wished she had acquired, too.

After a few moments of collecting her thoughts, Sansa felt ready to speak.

‘He’s kind to me. But not in the way you might think; he _sees_ me, Arya, the real me, and he pushes me to be that person. I’ve always thought that if I was good and did as I was told I’d be exactly what everyone wanted me to be, but he just wants me to be... me,’ Sansa shrugged again, struggling to put in to words exactly what she felt. ‘He makes me feel like I’m enough. Just as I am. _More_ than enough,’ she blushed despite herself.

Arya made a retching sound beside her. ‘Ugh! You’re disgusting.’

‘Arya,’ Sansa pleaded, taking her sister’s hand. ‘ _Please_ don’t tell anyone. I’ll do anything. I’ll cover for you, I’ll run your errands, just don’t tell.’

‘Alright, but you have to tell me one more thing.’

‘Anything.’

‘Why were you crying, if it wasn’t because of him?’

Sansa sighed heavily. She didn’t feel like reliving her morning, but in the scheme of things it was one of the better things that Arya could have asked for.

‘I saw them shaving women’s heads in the town square,’ she said quietly. ‘They were women who slept with Germans. Ros was there, and Shae.’

‘What?’ Arya leapt up, indignation radiating off her tiny frame. ‘Ros and Shae are prostitutes, for God’s sake! Of course they fucked the soldiers!’

‘Arya, language,’ Sansa admonished, but her sister wasn’t listening. She had begun to pace the room, fists clenching and unclenching as she muttered to herself.

‘Those fucking bastards. Oh, it’s so easy to blame the women, isn’t it! I saw Bernard the grocer giving German soldiers tins of peaches and sausages every week. Hell, the barber cut the officers’ hair for them all the time! Maybe I’ll shave his fat head and see how he likes it.’

Sansa smiled weakly. Her sister’s fire made her feel a little better about the whole thing – it was good to know that the people who mattered most to her would not think less of her if they knew the truth. ‘We could break into his house,’ she joked. ‘Shave his head while he’s sleeping.’

‘Great idea,’ Arya grinned toothily at her, some of the clouds in her eyes clearing. ‘We’ll get Clegane to hold him down. He has to be good for something.’

They laughed together then, and Sansa felt that with this shared secret their bond was beginning to repair itself. It was good to have her sister close, and though she was mortified at having been caught in the act with the Colonel, having another soul to confide in was more comforting that she might have guessed.

‘Arya,’ she said suddenly as an idea struck her. ‘Would you cover for me with _maman_ tomorrow? The Colonel is going to take me out walking.’

Arya doubled over theatrically and pretended to heave onto the rich shagpile rug, backing out of the room as she did so. At the last moment, before she slammed the door behind her, she gave Sansa a quick ‘thumbs up’. Sansa fell back on her bed to stare up at the ceiling, a grin splitting her face.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first instalment of The Walk™ and I try not to spend the whole time describing Sansa's outfit again. what can i say, my girl likes to accessorize

The next morning, Sandor stood by the back gate, smoking a cigarette and waiting for Sansa. He had not slept well – in the early hours of the evening he had paced his room, deliberating whether or not he should go downstairs to General Stark’s study and ask for his permission to court his daughter. That was how things were done, he knew – though he had no experience with it himself – and it seemed like the kind of respectful gesture a man like that would appreciate, particularly as Sandor was staying under his own roof. Several times he had even walked out of his room onto the landing with the intention of doing just that, but had always balked at the last moment. The very high possibility of Stark reacting poorly would likely result in him being removed from the house, placed in another billet, and possibly facing some kind of disciplinary action. It was the fear of such an occurrence before he had even had the chance to spend more than a few minutes in the little bird’s company that swayed his resolve. Despite the longing in his heart and the hope she made him feel when she touched his scars and kissed his cruel mouth, he was now living in constant fear of the inevitable moment in which Sansa came to her senses and would not allow him within a hundred yards of her, and he wanted to savour every second until then.

When the hour grew late and Sandor realised he had missed the opportunity for an audience with General Stark, he lay on his bed and thought about his first encounter with Sansa in the library. He had asked her what she had suffered, and there had been a flicker of something in her eyes and the downturn of her little rosebud mouth that hinted at some terrible memory. Her panic attack yesterday afternoon had confirmed his suspicions, but what burden she was carrying in her heart he could not begin to guess at.

Sandor had seen that same reaction countless times before. Many of his men had suffered from shellshock following the landings at Normandy, and his own mother had had an incredibly anxious disposition, brought on by the constant terror of her alcoholic husband and criminally violent eldest son. Those two men had created a landscape of fear in Sandor’s childhood home. It was not something that he liked to dwell on as it tended to bring out the worst in him; the memory of being small and helpless, unable to defend his mother and sister without risking a terrible beating himself, was still painfully clear. Once, his father had locked him in a cupboard for two days. His mother had been too afraid to let him out, but she had slipped bread through the crack in the door and whispered soothing words to him whenever it was safe to do so. Sometimes in the heat of battle, or during the worst of the shellfire, Sandor had tried to drag up that memory if only to recall the sound of her voice. She was long dead, now, and it was rare that he could think of her without experiencing a sting of some terrible emotion that felt a lot like guilt.

He took a deep pull on his cigarette, and as he expelled the smoke from his lungs Sandor tried to imagine those dark thoughts fading away into the September air along with it. It did him no good to dwell – those days were long gone, and right now the most beautiful creature he had ever seen was coming down the garden path towards him, dressed in a neat calico dress and leather brogues. There were white gloves on her hands and a jaunty felt hat the colour of red wine on her head, her halo of bronze hair bounced with every step, and fuck him if she wasn’t smiling at him like he was the best thing she’d ever seen. His heart seized, then sputtered back to life and resumed its rhythm at double time as she reached the gate and beamed up at him, cerulean eyes aglitter.

‘Hello,’ Sansa said. Sandor wondered how the hell she could make his stomach drop with just the simplest of greetings, cleared his throat and, a little belatedly perhaps, offered her his arm. She took it gladly and fell into step beside him, leading the way down the shaded lane that ran behind the Stark house. They turned right, rather than left towards the centre of town as Sandor was accustomed to.

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ Sansa began, though beneath the brim of her hat Sandor could see her mouth turned up in a smile. ‘We were seen, yesterday.’

Sandor’s heart stopped for the second time in as many minutes. ‘What?’ he barked. It came out a little louder than he intended. Sansa gave a tinkling laugh.

‘Yes. By Arya.’

‘Ah,’ Sandor felt better, then worse again as he realised how the girl was likely to hold it over his head for more shooting lessons. He expressed this thought with a groan, and Sansa turned her face up towards him, eyes narrowed playfully.

‘It’s a small price to pay, though, isn’t it? For the pleasure of my company?’

Sandor knew she was teasing, but had to agree with her all the same.

They walked until the houses became larger and less frequent, and then until there were no houses at all. They did not speak much. Sandor felt that they didn’t need to, and it was blissful to be sharing these quiet moments with her, relishing in her nearness, the silence broken only occasionally as she pointed out the home of a friend or a fat little bee bumbling across their path. The well-trodden lane became rougher and narrower, and before long they entered a sparse woodland. It was cooler here, and Sansa withdrew her arm from his to remove her gloves. Sandor mourned the absence of her hip pressed against his thigh almost instantly, and reached out for her without thinking. Sansa smiled, and allowed herself to be pulled against his chest, his hand coming up to pull her hat from her head even as he bent to press his lips to hers.

The kiss was chaste, at first. As it always did when she was near, Sandor’s skin felt alive with gooseflesh, hairs rising on his arms and the back of his neck as his every sense attuned to her. He smelled her perfume, felt the hard enamel of her teeth against his tongue as he pushed her mouth open greedily. She melted against him, and if Sandor had not reigned in his passion he might have taken her right there. But there were things he wanted to talk to her about, and it would not do to allow his mind to become clouded with lust.

He broke their kiss reluctantly, putting his hands on her shoulders and holding her a few feet from his body so that he could see her face.

‘Little bird,’ he began, trying to ignore the way her mouth had swollen from the pressure of his own. ‘Tell me what happened.’

A serious of emotions passed over Sansa’s countenance. She was so open, so expressive with him now – a far cry from the porcelain doll he had met when he first arrived at the Stark house. Her eyes first widened with surprise, then blinked rapidly as they filled with unshed tears and her mouth fixed in a thin, tight line. Finally, she set her jaw and stared up at him defensively.

‘What are you talking about?’ she asked tightly.

‘I know something happened to you,’ Sandor rumbled, tightening his grip just a little. ‘I want you to tell me what it was. If you want to,’ he added as an afterthought.

Sansa made that shape with her mouth again, that hard little line, and the sadness was back in her eyes. When she spoke, it was a whisper. ‘I haven’t told anyone. I don’t want you to think… less of me.’

‘Little bird,’ Sandor bent slightly to bring his face closer to hers, meeting her gaze as he told her earnestly, ‘Nothing you could do could make me think less of you. You’re bloody perfect.’

Sansa made a soft little noise – half laugh, half sob – and exhaled shakily. Slowly, her mouth relaxed, and then she drew herself up to her full height and that cold fire that had drawn Sandor in in those first days of knowing her was back.

‘Alright,’ she said. Her voice did not waver. ‘I’ll tell you.’


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Walk™ continues. brief description of abuse in this chapter

Sansa told him. She told him how the blonde boy had stalked her after the night the Pooles were taken away, how he had come to her house and asked after her. She told Sandor how the soldier had found her walking home one afternoon, and though she had tried to hurry past him with her eyes downcast he had caught her by the arm with fingers that felt like claws and asked her where she was going. When she told him her family were waiting for her, he laughed and threw her on the ground so hard that she bit her tongue and tasted blood. He was only slight, and not many years older than herself, but surprise and fear rendered her incapable of fighting back when he climbed on top of her and pushed her face into the cobblestones, grazing and bruising her cheek.

‘He touched me… everywhere,’ she said in a hushed tone, pale hands coming up to gesture weakly at the most intimate parts of her body. ‘And he was very rough. I started to cry, and he laughed and hurt me more.’

Sansa swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment as she remembered how her cheeks had burned with humiliation when the boy pulled up her skirt to expose her legs and bottom.

‘I don’t think he meant to…’ here she paused. The word felt sharp and heavy on her tongue, but it also seemed important that she say it. ‘ _Rape_ me. He could have, if he wanted to. He just wanted to hurt me. It didn’t feel like he wanted me, not at all. He told me I was a French slut who consorted with filth and he wouldn’t dirty himself on me. I thought he was going to kill me, I really did.’

Sansa moved away from Sandor then, hands coming up to form a steeple over her face as she fought to keep her breathing even.

‘How did you get away?’ she heard him croak, the tension in his voice palpable.

‘A German officer pulled him off me.’ Sansa recalled the high shine of his boots as they came into view, and the sudden rush of air into her lungs as the officer pulled the boy off her. He had been blonde too, so like the boy they could have been father and son; except that this man was handsome, strong-jawed and proud.

‘He was missing a hand,’ her own voice sounded faraway as she became lost in the memory. ‘He had a, how do you say, _proth_ _étique_? A false one, made of metal. He hit the boy with it.’

Sansa could still hear the satisfying crack of officer’s prosthetic hand colliding with the soft cheek of the soldier. The boy had run off, then, and the handsome officer had helped her to her feet. His blue eyes had been kind, but so, so sad. He had said something to her, though to this day she did not know what it was or even what language he spoke. It was then that her instincts kicked in and she ran all the way home, where she cleaned up her face and cried herself to sleep.

Now that her tale was finished, Sandor seemed ready to unleash whatever storm he had been holding at bay since she began to speak. His massive body seemed to vibrate with rage, and Sansa saw his eyes flash brighter than lightening as he clenched his fists and spat, ‘I’ll kill him. I’ll find him and I’ll fucking kill him.’

Sansa sighed. She suddenly felt bone-tired. ‘He is long gone, Sandor. Maybe dead already.’

But Sandor wasn’t listening. He had begun to pace, muttering to himself in a way that reminded Sansa startlingly of Arya.

‘You can write me a full description,’ he growled. ‘I’ll find that sick fuck and make him die screaming. He’ll regret he ever-‘

‘Sandor!’ Sansa threw herself at him, halting his pacing with her entire frame and clutching his head in her hands, desperate for him to hear her. ‘I don’t need you to fix it!’

Sandor stared at her, grey eyes hard and impenetrable, a slate wall she desperately wanted to scale to see what was on the other side. He was breathing like a blown horse, and his body was tense as a coiled spring.

‘I don’t need you to fix it,’ she repeated, softer now. With all her might, she willed him to comprehend. ‘You _can't_ fix it. I just need you to listen. I need you to understand.’

The silence that fell then seemed to last an age. Sandor did not move – did not so much as blink – and she began to worry that she had lost him for good. She pressed her palms against his cheeks even harder, as if she could take the rage from his heart through physical touch, absorb all his anger until he was himself again.

And then, when she had almost given up hope, the tightness around his eyes relaxed imperceptibly. His gaze softened, and Sansa was reminded of the sky after rain, when all the clouds had cleared and a new, clean world remained.

‘Brave girl,’ was what he said, then. His hand came up to cup her chin, and at his gentle touch the dam inside Sansa broke. The relief she felt at no longer carrying the weight of her secret alone combined with the terrible pain of reliving her attack once more was too much, and she began shake as hot tears fell freely down her face.

‘Alright, little bird, you’re alright,’ Sandor murmured, pulling her to him. He rubbed at her back and stroked her hair, letting her rest her weight against him. ‘You break my heart when you cry.’

Sansa tried to laugh at the sweetness of him, this great bull of a man, but it caught in her throat and choked her. He sat her on the ground as she gasped for air, then came down himself to lean his back against the thick trunk of an oak tree. He pulled her to him, arranged her between his legs so that she lay against his chest, and said nothing more as he waited for her to regain composure. Sansa tried to focus on the _thud, thud_ of his heart where she rested her head, the rhythmic rise and fall of his great barrel chest, and felt calm begin to wash over her. She breathed deep. She loved the wet dirt smell of the woods, and the soft shushing of the leaves in the canopy. Here she felt safe, and her heart, though wrung out and raw with the emotional turmoil of the last twenty-four hours, had never been more full.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandor loves vaginas, sorry I don't make the rules

Above her, chin resting on the crown of Sansa’s head, Sandor was experiencing a kind of emotional turmoil unlike anything he had ever known. First, there was pity – he ached at the thought of all she had gone through, and suffered with alone. Then there was rage, his old companion. The thought of this nameless, faceless soldier forcing his cruel touch on this woman – _his_ woman, as he could not help but think of her – was enough to make his blood boil. It seemed all the more unjust when he thought about how generously she had opened herself up to him that night in the library, welcoming him with her body like a flower turning towards the sun. How pure, how sweet she was, a holy thing that this blonde bastard had dared to try to desecrate.

And beneath all that there was a sharp sting of something he had rarely felt before. He thought it might be shame. He could not help but compare himself – bitter, coarse and perpetually angry as he was – with the woman who now curled against his chest, so still and quiet she might have been sleeping. Each had their load to carry, and as much as one could not compare trauma Sandor could not help but feel that she had borne hers with far more grace and poise than he had. He had to admire her strength, the courage it must have taken of her to place her trust in him after such an experience. He pressed his lips to Sansa’s head without thinking, and she stirred, twisting in his lap until they were face to face. The tears were gone. She looked composed, calm – perhaps more so than Sandor had ever seen her.

‘So,’ she began, fingers curling around his lapels. ‘Do you think less of me?’

He hated that she could even ask him that, but it hinted at some deep-seated insecurity that Sandor longed to soothe, and so he told her, ‘you did nothing wrong. I already thought the world of you and that hasn’t changed. Will never change,’ he added, though it felt risky as all hell and his palms began to sweat.

‘Is that so?’ Sansa smiled, a slow, lazy spread of those plump lips across her too-white teeth, and Sandor groaned.

‘Don’t you fucking look at me like that,’ he scolded, gruffly. ‘Unless you want me to take you right here under these trees.’

Her smile widened further, and she straddled his lap just as she had the day before. It amused him a little that she was learning so quickly.

‘Maybe I do,’ she murmured. ‘It’s beautiful here, and I’m tired of waiting.’

Sandor ran his hands up her thighs, squeezing the soft flesh when he reached the little crease at her hips. He was already half-hard, and knew dimly that he only had a few minutes – maybe less – of rational thought remaining before the beast in him took over and he devoured her the way he’d been dreaming of since he first laid eyes on her.

‘Sansa,’ Sandor croaked. ‘You remember what I said, don’t you?’

She nodded, her arms wrapping around his neck. ‘Yes. Once you have me, I’ll be yours.’

As she repeated his own words back to him she pressed her centre down hard against his straining erection, eliciting a curse and a groan from his lips.

‘Well,’ she went on, rolling her hips against his. He couldn’t help but tighten his hold on her, guiding her in her rhythm until she hit the tip of his cock just right. ‘I’m already yours. So let’s do it.’

Sandor’s last vestige of self-control snapped. He bundled her up and rolled her under him, the long grass of the wood a canopy around them as he kissed her hungrily, pinning her down with his weight. If she wanted it – had _asked_ for it – then who was he to tell her no? And, fucking hell, she sure as shit deserved it. That was what he told herself even as he fumbled beneath her skirts and stripped her of her underwear, leaving her bare under his hands.

‘Alright, then,’ he growled, pressing kisses to her delicate throat as he planted his knees then rose up to sit back on his haunches. ‘But I’m going to take my damn time.’

The countless fantasies of Sansa that Sandor had entertained since meeting her had done nothing to prepare him for what he saw when he looked down at her now. Her legs, pale as the driven snow, were spread and raised to accommodate his bulk between them, and between her thighs a perfect triangle of soft red hair crowned the most gorgeous pussy Sandor had ever clapped eyes on. The pink of her folds against the white of her skin reminded him perversely of coconut ice, and made his mouth water. There was a freckle on her right labia that he longed to touch with his tongue. Sansa was blushing furiously, her hands covering her face even though she made no move to hide herself from him. She looked angelic, lying there with her hair fanning about her face in her white dress, and Sandor reached up to grasp her wrists gently, pulling her hands down until she met his eyes. Despite her embarrassment, he could see a twinkle of wickedness in the way she bit her lip, and it gave him all the encouragement he needed.

‘Even prettier than I dreamed,’ he rasped. He released one of her arms to reach down between them and trail his fingertips along her sex. ‘Didn’t I say I’d have a taste of you?’

She nodded, and in answer he bent his head, spread her wide with two fingers and licked her with the flat of his tongue, long and slow. She stiffened at the unfamiliar sensation, then released the tension with a shudder and a sigh. Sandor explored her, not yet seeking to bring her to release but paying careful attention to the delicate design of this secret organ, a masterpiece of nature. Her taste was sweet and made him think of good things, of fresh fruit picked from the vine, earth after rain, sun on skin. He was keenly attuned to the responses of her body each time he tried something new, and learned that she liked when he pressed his tongue to her entrance, applying pressure but not quite penetrating, and when he closed his lips around that tender little bud at the top of her slit and sucked and hummed. At length her fingers slipped into his hair, pressing his mouth harder against her, and if he wasn’t otherwise engaged Sandor might have smiled at her enthusiasm. He wanted her to give herself over to him, to lose her misgivings and simply enjoy the moment, as he was. So he redoubled his efforts, drawing circles around her clitoris with his tongue before sucking it hard in a ceaseless rhythm that soon had her squirming. Sandor put his hands on her hips and held her still, a prisoner of his lust, and though his cock was aching against his fly he would not stop until he had the pleasure of seeing Sansa Stark coming on his tongue.

At last he was rewarded – her body tightened, poised for a moment of great release, and then she peaked with a throaty moan that was instantly stifled by her own hand clapping down hard on her mouth. Sandor had not had the foresight, this time. He chuckled, kissed her cunt once, twice, three times, and then trailed his lips up her stomach to touch her navel, delicate and sweet as the rest of her. Sansa stared down at him, cheeks flushed and eyes so bright in her face.

‘You won’t deny me now,’ she whispered, and though it was not quite a question there was a hint of desperate uncertainty that made her tone rise and her eyebrows bow pleadingly.

Sandor felt a wrenching in his heart and his groin. He was already reaching for his belt when he told her, ‘no, little bird. I won’t deny you anything.’

And then his cock was free in his hand, hard and heavy and tender and begging for her. He leaned over her to plant one arm by her head, supporting his weight, while with the other he guided his member to press against her warm, slick flesh. He tried to remind himself that this was her first time, that he had to be gentle and slow and try not to scare her, but when he looked down into Sansa’s eyes there was no fear there. She was looking up at him hungrily, and as she reached up to caress his scarred cheek she whispered, ‘please. I’m ready.’

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ Sandor cursed, and he glanced down between them to where their bodies were almost joined. The tip of his cock was so swollen it was almost purple, and he ran it up and down her slit several times, coating himself in her arousal. Sansa seemed to like the feeling and arched up against him. When he slapped the head against her clitoris a few times for good measure she had to bite down on her lip to keep from crying out, and that was when Sandor knew that he could not hold off any longer.

He slipped into her then, slowly and carefully but meeting almost no resistance other than the heavenly tightness of her passage. Sandor dropped to both elbows, the better to angle and control the thrust of his hips, and pressed his forehead against Sansa’s, watching her eyes for any discomfort. He saw none.

‘Good,’ she gasped. ‘It feels good. Just… big.’

She could not know what she did to him, he thought as a feral growl rumbled through his chest. He pushed deeper, harder, her softness enveloping until at last his hips were flush with hers and he bottomed out inside her. He had not felt any tearing, but then again, he had never been with a virgin before and he did not know whether he ought to. Perhaps that was just a myth. She had certainly been more than ready to accommodate him, and as he held himself still and tried to regain his composure he felt her wrap her legs around his waist, inviting him still deeper.

‘Sansa,’ he gasped raggedly, unable to stop himself from pulling his hips back and snapping them against hers once again, thrusting into her hard. ‘Fuck, you feel good. So fucking good. Wanted this so long.’

She inhaled sharply at the impact, releasing the breath in a soft moan as he drew out of her again, and there was an element of surprise in her tone when she murmured, ‘Sandor… it’s so nice.’

Encouraged, Sandor carried on, rocking hard against her as she raised her hips to meet his own, parrying each thrust. Their mouths met, hot and frenzied, and then Sansa’s hands were everywhere, fisting his hair and sneaking beneath his shirt to caress his back. In turn, Sandor shifted his weight onto one arm and squeezed at her breast the way he knew she liked, earning himself a fluttering of muscle around his cock that almost made him lose the careful hold he was keeping on his orgasm.

‘You know how badly I’ve wanted this?’ he growled, pinching her nipple lightly. Sansa’s breath was coming in short pants, and little beads of sweat were beginning to show on her forehead. ‘It’s all I’ve thought about,’ Sandor told her, relishing in the way his words made her squirm. ‘Imagining all the different ways I could fuck you and make you scream. Wondering how your pretty little pussy would feel wrapped around me,’ he broke off with a groan as she tightened around him once again. ‘Better than I ever imagined.’

Sandor dropped his head to her shoulder, pace quickening now as he began to quickly lose hold of what little control he had. He had wanted her too much, too desperately to drag this out any longer.

‘Fuck, Sansa,’ he gasped. ‘I can’t… too good, too fucking good…’

And then he was pulling out of her as the white lightening of his orgasm blinded him. He came in hot spurts against the smooth expanse of her stomach and then fell back, rolling to the side to lie with Sansa in a tangle of limbs and her red, red hair, both of them panting and seeing stars. 


End file.
